


What Light Through Yonder Window Breaks

by ZJ_Timekeeper



Category: Girl Genius
Genre: Crack, EVERYTHING GOES WRONG, F/M, Fluff and Crack, Master Payne's Circus of Adventure, Multi, Tarvek and the Terrible Horrible No-Good Very Bad Day, Tarvek hosts a ball, comedy of misery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-15
Updated: 2016-12-08
Packaged: 2018-05-20 15:26:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 20,957
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6014041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZJ_Timekeeper/pseuds/ZJ_Timekeeper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The ball is in five hours. The food isn't ready; people aren't dressed; the decorations are ruined. If the problems ended there, Tarvek could handle it. </p><p>But they don't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Five Hours to Go

With a hideously high-pitched shriek, the motor jammed. Gears ground together. A loud _SPROING!_ sounded, and before Tarvek could duck and cover, he was thrown backwards by a gold-plated cherub. 

For several minutes, Tarvek lay on the stone floor of his lab, stunned. It wasn’t often that he considered the unfairness of life, but an exploding punch fountain presented a particular strain which Tarvek felt unequipped to combat. Never mind that the concept of a punch fountain was intended to be a relatively easy, low-stress break from the organization of that night’s ball celebrating of the newly formed Pax Europa.

Tarvek reached to remove his welding mask, knocking it against the wings of the cherub in the process. The cherub, which had once posed proudly atop the ornate fountain, was unceremoniously shoved to the floor with a loud clunk.

Tarvek took stock of the damage. His favorite set of Erlenmeyer flasks, an antique collection with etched arabesque curls and gold enamel, was shattered. One of the windows was similarly destroyed, which was saying something, considering Sturmhalten’s windows were purported to rival the strength of diamonds. His notes, now drenched with punch, would conceivably still be legible, but Tarvek wasn’t holding his breath. 

His new lab coat, too, was a complete write-off. Beyond fury, Tarvek stared down at it blankly. The white silk lab coat with gold epaulettes, newly delivered from Monsieur Oliphaunt of Paris’ Beautiful Abominations of Science Menswear Line, was a mottled red. The punch had dyed the allegedly stain-proof fabric a patchy scarlet, steaming slightly in the afternoon light.

On top of all this, Tarvek might’ve been just a little grateful that he himself wasn’t burned. Any thought he might’ve spared for his own skin, which would’ve been hard to replace and repair at short notice, was crushed by the realization that his pince-nez were now cracked. 

Numbly, he removed the now-useless glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose, but quickly lowered his hand. The force of the cherub’s wings flying into his mask must have pushed his glasses back against his face, because his nose was tender and probably bruised. It would probably be black and blue by the evening. 

A knock sounded on the door. Tarvek sighed. Before he could ask who was there, a voice sounded from the hallway beyond. “Begging your pardon, Your Majesty, but the royal party from Skifander has arrived.”

Silently, Tarvek nodded and breathed in slowly. Just what he needed. They, of course, would have to be greeted immediately. He’d have to change and clean up quickly. “Take them to the blue salon. I will be down to greet them presently. Have someone fetch my spare glasses and bring them here.”

“Very good, Sire.” Footsteps faintly echoed in the corridor outside as the servant left to deliver the message.

Slowly, Tarvek got to his feet and shucked his ruined coat, letting it fall to the ground. He made his way into the converted wardrobe off the main lab, which was equipped with a full length mirror and a change of clothing for just such instances. He didn’t need his glasses to see that his current attire was beyond help, and immediately set to disrobing, using any dry patches of his clothing to pat his hair dry as best he could before getting into his clean outfit. 

Tarvek’s fingers were fastening the last button of his new waistcoat when a knock sounded again, signaling the arrival of his glasses. Properly dressed and able to see, Tarvek gave instructions to replace the soiled clothing with new garments in anticipation of the next lab accident. 

Although, Tarvek thought sourly as he made his way through the stone corridors of Sturmhalten Castle, if the day continued in its current course, he’d probably regret not having _eight_ fresh outfits delivered to his lab.

The ongoing preparations for the ball that night continued to go awry at every possible turn. The chickens hadn’t laid enough eggs and more had to be delivered from town; the cooks’ rage at the delay in preparation sent the servants into a panic. The butler had since been discovered crying in the laundry room and his seneschal was nowhere to be found, leaving Tarvek to deal with the shipment of roses which had fallen victim to frost. Alternative decorations for the ballroom needed to be arranged, and Tarvek had eventually decided on bolts of draped silk, which had been available in Balan’s Gap, but which were incredibly expensive. Tarvek had consoled himself with the thought that garments could later be made from the material, but his plans for a new scarlet silk cape were foiled by the servant who had somehow misinterpreted his instructions for decorating. The silk which was not cut into tablecloths and runners had been cut into banners, but these had been hastily sewn and were noticeably frayed and puckered. 

Anyone with sewing experience was called in to rectify the issue, which meant that the pressing and steaming of the formalwear for that night fell to less qualified hands. Violetta’s dress was one notable casualty, but thankfully, Tarvek’s frock coat, an antique which had belonged to Andronicus Valois himself, had escaped any damage. 

After one of the cooks had ruined an entire batch of meringue with a broken egg yolk, the sommelier had retired to the cellar and had drunk the last remaining bottle of Tarvek’s favorite vintage, the one he’d been saving for his wedding night in three months. That was when Tarvek had decided to hole himself up in his lab for the remainder of the afternoon. 

And what a brilliant idea _that_ had been. 

Such was Tarvek’s frustration that he barely registered his steps, and arrived at the salon to greet the royal family of Skifander without being able to recall his journey. Oddly out of step with reality, he shook himself. One did not converse with Zanta while distracted, and Tarvek was not in the mood to be teased. 

One of the servants stationed outside the room knocked and opened the doors for Tarvek. Inside, Klaus Wulfenbach stood before the fireplace while his wife Zantabraxus, the Warrior Queen of Skifander, sat on the sofa, carelessly sensuous in her pose. Tarvek guessed this posture was as much an intimidation tactic as it was raw confidence in herself, and that the perfection of the tone it set was the result of decades-long practice.

What he hadn’t expected was for Agatha and Zeetha to beat him there, but sure enough, they had, and were comfortably settled in a pair of armchairs. The entire party was taking tea, but Zeetha’s plate, Tarvek noticed, contained enough crumbs for her to have eaten an entire tray of petit-fours. Gil, though, was notably absent. Tarvek wondered if he was still off fighting that breakthrough clank in the Alsace, and if he was delaying his return to avoid Zanta’s unique sense of humor, or to annoy him.

Tarvek bowed to the room. “Your Majesties.” He tried to muster as much warmth and welcome in his voice as possible, though that didn’t amount to much. 

“Tarvek.” Klaus inclined his head to Tarvek, but pointedly refused to address him formally. Zanta said nothing, but nodded, as well. That probably wasn’t meant to annoy him, Tarvek told himself in blind self-defense, though he suspected the opposite was true. 

“Come join us,” Agatha said as she poured a new cup of tea for him. Already waiting on the tea cart was a generously sized slice of Tarvek’s favorite coconut cake. Though Tarvek had made an effort to abstain from sweets in the last three weeks (he was bound and determined to fit into Andronicus Valois’ magnificent coat!), he took it without a blink. Finally, something to look forward to on this hellish afternoon! 

His excitement was quickly snuffed out as he realized that there was nowhere he could sit: the chairs were occupied by Zeetha and Agatha, and Zanta had artistically arranged herself on the couch in such a way that sharing the space would’ve required her to sit up and scoot over. Formulating a suitable way to request that Zantabraxus move was a task to which Tarvek felt unequal in that moment.

The only conversationally open position he could take was standing near the window, and a gentleman did not eat cake while standing. With a glance of longing at the cake, which looked so delicious that he was sure it was a taunt from some higher power, he set it on the end table and sipped at his tea, which was lukewarm. That, he set aside, too. 

Tarvek belatedly realized that he hadn’t said anything since entering, and that, as the master of Sturmhalten, he was expected to make some conversational effort. By the time he registered this, he saw that everyone was staring at him strangely. Black fire and slag, what was going on now?

“Tarvek, are you okay?” Agatha asked cautiously. 

“Ashtara above, what did you _do?_ ” Zeetha echoed her.

A glance at his front showed a few speckles of red on his crisp white waistcoat. Further inspection revealed this to be punch. A large crimson patch was spreading across his shoulders and, he guessed, his back, as well. Clearly, his hair hadn’t been as dry or free of punch as he’d thought. 

Tarvek bit the inside of his cheek as he scraped together any remaining dignity he had. “My apologies. There was a minor accident in the lab.” He cleared his throat. “Please excuse me while I freshen up. Welcome to Sturmhalten, Your Majesties.”

Tarvek’s escape could not be described as fleeing, but it was a near miss. 

After retreating to his room, Tarvek was able to bathe in peace. Not wishing to deal with any sort of human presence, he dismissed his valet and drew a bath himself. It would’ve been more expedient to shower, but Tarvek stubbornly filled the tub with water, using a liberal hand with the salts. It wasn’t until he settled into the tub and picked up his battered, water-warped copy of _Trelawney Thorpe, Spark of the Realm: The Return of the Iron Sheik_ (a long-awaited sequel to Miss Thorpe’s adventures in the Sheik’s seraglio) that Tarvek registered the scent filling the steamy air.

He’d used some of Agatha’s bath salts instead of his own, filling the air with the sticky-sweet smell of honeysuckle, not the refined and refreshing scent of pine, which he’d intended to use. 

Well, there went the idea of actually enjoying his bath. 

A knock sounded at the door, and Tarvek jumped. “What?” he snapped before he could think of something a little nicer. 

The door opened and Agatha’s head appeared. Her look of concern was quickly replaced with confusion as she sniffed the air. “Are you using my bath salts?”

Tarvek buried his face in the book’s wavy pages and said nothing for several moments. “It was a mistake,” he grumbled, voice muffled by the paper. 

“Oh.” Agatha seemed to accept this as a reasonable explanation and entered the bathroom. She perched on the edge of the tub and plucked the novel from Tarvek’s hands, revealing his tired and sullen face. 

The press of her lips on his forehead jerked Tarvek out of his sulking reverie. She smiled down at him, green eyes tender, full of encouragement, not pity. And… was that a plate of coconut cake she had in hand?

Agatha grinned as Tarvek’s gaze zeroed in on the cake. “Here,” she said simply as she handed it to him. “Why didn’t you eat any downstairs?”

Tarvek took a moment to chew his cake enough to speak without spraying crumbs all over Agatha. “Some obscure law of etiquette that Klaus and Zanta probably wouldn’t have cared about, anyway.”

“Why did _you_ care?”

Again, Tarvek paused, savoring the delightfully moist cake, which had just the right amount of frosting. This time, though, he stalled a little. How to put this? “One must make an effort to show no vulnerability in front of those two. Asking to sit down so I could eat would make it seem—”

“Like you’re an actual human being?”

Tarvek glared at her. “Have you even had a conversation with Zanta? One mistake and suddenly, I’m the walking joke in the room. I’d rather not give her the satisfaction.”

Agatha snorted. “She does that to everyone.”

“Well, I’d prefer she didn’t target me.” Silence filled the steamy room, broken by the clink of the fork on Tarvek’s plate as he took another bite. “Any news from Gil?”

She shook her head, then raised a hand to tuck a loose hair behind her ear. “Still gone.” Her expression couldn’t quite be classified as worried, but she did seem a bit agitated by this. Inwardly, he echoed that sentiment. 

“I’m sure he’ll be back by tonight,” he heard himself say, but even he could hear that his tone didn’t reflect the confidence in his words. “Or at least, he’d _better_ be.” Tarvek spared a moment to consider how he could thrash Gil if he missed the ball. As one of the three heads of the new Pax Europa, it would be highly amiss if Gil was absent. Short of mortal wounds, he should have no excuse not to be there. 

Agatha’s frown was calculating as she stared at Tarvek. He held the plate to his chest defensively under her scrutiny, as though it could do anything to disguise the fact that he was sitting in a flowery-smelling bath eating cake and reading a salacious romance novel. 

“Are you okay?” she finally asked.

Tarvek relaxed a little. “Not really.” She nodded once, and he elaborated. “Tonight’s preparations.”

The answer seemed to satisfy her, but she didn’t pursue that line of inquiry, which Tarvek deeply appreciated. “What were you working on this afternoon?”

“A punch fountain.”

“How does it work?”

“Well, it’s just a simple fountain, but the punch is a little thick, so I’m using an R-87 motor instead of the R-52 design.”

She nodded. “Go on.”

“And I wanted the filters to have a way to keep the orange slices from clogging up the whole thing, so I created a built-in clank to keep them moving around. I used Reese’s HH20 programming.” Tarvek began to describe the mechanics of the filtration system. The harmonics in their voices grew together as they discussed how they could improve the design of the fountain’s motor and the golden cherubs which supported the bowl itself.

Agatha grinned at him, and it was a testament to the strength of Tarvek’s own spark that he didn’t cower. She was magnificent. A terrible beauty. A dark goddess.

God, he loved her. 

“You stay here and relax,” she told him gently, her words at odds with the Sparky tones in her voice. “Get cleaned up. I’ll take care of the ball.”

Alarm bells went off in Tarvek’s head. “Agatha, what are you—”

He was cut off by the press of her lips on his, and for a moment, Tarvek’s arguments were forgotten. Kisses were all well and good, but he was hosting a ball that night which half of Europa’s high society was going to attend, and there was still much to do. “What are you going to do?”

“Shh.” Agatha’s green eyes blazed, and she was kissing him again. This time, Tarvek actually leaned backward into the tub, allowing himself to enjoy the sensation. Heat surrounded him, from Agatha’s lips to the warm bathwater, and he began to slip away into a mindless fog. 

When she pulled back, he stared up at her blearily. Her smile was both terrifying and glorious. “I’ll take care of everything.” And then, she was gone.

Tarvek’s mind took a moment to catch up to what had just happened, and he sat bolt upright. “What are you going to take care of?!” he cried after her, but she was gone. Hair still unwashed and body dripping honeysuckle-scented water, Tarvek set the cake down on a counter (rather carelessly, as he heard the crash of shattering china as it fell to the floor), snatched a towel, and hastily wrapped it around his waist. Mincing steps across cold floors carried him through his bedroom to the hall, and he tried to guess in which direction she’d run. “ _AGATHA!_ ”

She was long gone.

Fuming silently, Tarvek slumped over. There would be no stopping her now, and he still needed to wash his hair. Newly wet from the bath, it dripped a dappled, diluted red down his chest onto the white towel. Clearly, nothing in Sturmhalten would be pure white ever again. At least, he reasoned, he looked good in crimson.

He stood there for a brief moment, debating whether or not to go after her. On the one hand, everything else had already gone wrong. That, and Tarvek had already hidden her latest death ray, and he could most likely catch up to her before she could finish a new one.

The mere idea of Agatha building a new death ray, however, was something he didn’t want to leave to chance. 

Cursing in a way that would’ve made Gil wonder what Tarvek had gotten up to in Paris, Tarvek retreated into his room long enough to shuck the towel and grab a bathrobe, which he hastily threw on to cover his otherwise-total lack of clothing, then tore out of the room at top speed. He loved Agatha, but he also rather loved Sturmhalten, which, if she got too caught up on Sparky madness, she could all too easily reduce to a pile of rubble. Again.

Tarvek’s bare feet slapped against the stone floors as he ran. He hadn’t even left that wing of the castle when a door opened and Tarvek’s momentum was halted rather forcefully by Klaus Wulfenbach.

Tarvek had enough time to slow his momentum, but he still ended up slamming into the former baron. Through some miracle, neither of them ended up on the floor. Tarvek, if he’d actually had a second to look, would’ve found Klaus’ surprised expression highly entertaining. As it was, the two men hadn’t even been pressed together for half a second before they mutually shoved each other away. Tarvek stood back, blinking, attempting to stand taller and compose himself. Of all the people to run into in such a state…

At least it hadn’t been Zantabraxus.

Klaus eyed Tarvek in that careful, shrewd way of his, as though he could divine what Tarvek had eaten for breakfast if he looked at him long enough. Tarvek cleared his throat and bowed slightly, more an inclination of the head than anything. “Please excuse me, sir. That was unseemly of me.”

Klaus stood there, blinking expressionlessly. His eyes never left Tarvek’s as he spoke. “Your robe is open.”

It took a full three seconds for the message to sink in. Tarvek hadn’t thought that anything Klaus could’ve said would make Tarvek heavily consider throwing himself into a volcano, but it seemed that there was. 

As Tarvek hastily began to retie his robe—why weren’t his hands cooperating!?—the door behind Klaus swung open. Belatedly, Tarvek remembered that this was where he and Zanta were residing during their stay in Balan’s Gap. Zanta appeared in the doorframe, a highly amused and slightly evil expression on her face. “Ooooh,” she began, voice heavy with exaggerated interest as she saw Tarvek closing his robe. “Klaus, _what_ did I miss?”

Tarvek’s mortified blush went down to his chest. He opened his mouth to greet her, but all that came out was a strangled squeak.

“Don’t torture the boy,” Klaus said smoothly, as unruffled as though he saw Tarvek in compromising situations on a daily basis.

This patronization didn’t make Tarvek feel better, and he fought to keep from actively slumping over.

“But he makes such a good target,” Zanta crooned. Now, she was just being cruel. 

Tarvek cleared his throat and squared his shoulders. “Is… is there anything I can do for Your Majesties?” he finally managed, certain that he looked like an absolute loon, though silliness was still a step up from nakedness in front of his future in-laws.

Klaus, though, was of the opinion that Tarvek seemed ready to level a town at the slightest provocation, and decided that, if only to prevent an outright war between Europa and Skifander, he should summon a servant to answer any queries. War would just be tiresome.

Zanta, however, had no such compunctions. “Yes, actually. You see, the weather’s been so nice lately, so Klaus and I had originally intended to wear traditional Skifandrian formalwear this evening. But it’s so chilly today, and I’m afraid all that bare skin would be uncomfortable. Do you have something for us to wear this evening?”

This was getting ridiculous. Tarvek raised a hand to pinch the bridge of his nose while he fought to regain control of himself, but involuntarily swore. His nose was still bruised. Tarvek decided it would be pointless to apologize for his language given his recent literal run-in with the Klaus. He straightened as he rubbed at his nose. “I’m sure we could manage something. Come with me.”

It was too late to send for bolts of cloth and have garments made in time for the ball, so clothes would have to be altered from existing pieces. The only clothes in Sturmhalten that could be altered to fit Klaus’ huge frame were probably Gil’s, Tarvek decided, so he led them down the hall into the young baron’s quarters. They’d already reached Gil’s room by the time Tarvek realized he should’ve sent for a servant to look after Klaus and Zanta while he changed into something that wouldn’t accidentally reveal anything unmentionable a second time.

By then, Tarvek was of a mind to just slip into something Gil owned, if only for the sake of not having another hallway accident. He selected a few things for himself as Klaus perused his son’s clothing. 

Tarvek debated whether or not to change into Gil’s clothes immediately, which would necessitate announcing his intention to do so. That would once again spotlight his lack of clothing. As he debated the pros and cons of being clothed to further teasing, he stared out the window at the vast swaths of pines covering the surrounding mountains, trying not to remember the tale of the Emperor’s New Clothes. It had been a while since Tarvek had heard the tale, but he recalled it involving two cunning tailors who convinced the emperor that they could spin cloth which would be invisible to those who weren’t Sparks.

It was to Tarvek’s eternal misfortune that Zanta always knew the right thing to say to make him feel uncomfortable. “It’s nice, isn’t it, borrowing your man’s clothing? Larger clothes are always so comfortable.”

With deliberate slowness, Tarvek drew in a deep breath and used the secret Smoke Knight technique of counting to ten to calm himself. Gil’s clothing size wasn’t that much larger than his own! “Seeing as how you’re so much more… _diminutive_ than your lord husband, I imagine his clothing fits you much the same as a tent does. Tell me, do you cut it up to keep from tripping over it, or do you prefer to fall flat on your face, Your Majesty?”

Perhaps that comment wasn’t in the best taste, but Tarvek was feeling a little fed up. Besides, if Klaus and Zanta were going to be part of his family in three months, he might as well embrace the familial teasing and return it in kind.

“Oooh, kitty’s got claws!” Zanta’s amusement sounded deeper than was necessary.

“And I thought retirement meant I didn’t have to mediate arguments between Sparks anymore,” Klaus said in a deadpan tone. Something about his delivery made Tarvek feel a little better – at least he wasn’t the only one who wanted to be somewhere else.

Mercifully, though, Zanta didn’t continue the conversation.

Finally, Klaus produced a blue-gray frock coat made from herringbone-patterned wool. It was a fine coat, one that Tarvek had a match for. On a trip to Prague a year ago, he’d found the wool in the shopping district. It was a Spark creation which exacerbated any static electricity, causing miniature flashes and bolts of lightning to coruscate across the fabric’s surface. Tarvek had had a devil of a time finding a material for coat lining which would keep them from getting too shocked, but he’d eventually succeeded. The resultant matching coats were often worn by the two of them in Mechanicsburg so that they looked the part of suitably impressive Heterodyne consorts.

Secretly, it was Tarvek’s favorite coat.

As Klaus held up the coat, Tarvek’s heart sank. Gil’s coat simply wasn’t big enough, and he knew where the extra fabric to complete the coat would come from.

Stubbornly, he schooled his face into stoicism. Considering how he’d just run into Klaus, Tarvek felt more than a little compelled to give into Klaus’ desire to use that fabric. More of that fabric could probably be found somewhere later. If not, well, he’d have to create some himself.

Tarvek tightened the sash on his robe and tugged on the tasseled cord hanging from the ceiling to summon a servant. “Yes, that’s an excellent choice, sir,” he said with forced casualness.

“It is your color,” Zanta chimed in with a casual air. “It would look so good on our bedroom floor.”

“Hm.” Klaus didn’t visibly react to this comment. “It’s the color of the bed sheets from—”

A knock at the door saved Tarvek again. “Come in!” he called, much louder than decorum allowed.

“Your Majesties?” The maid at the door curtsied. Tarvek could’ve kissed her for rescuing him from Klaus and Zanta.

“His Highness requires a new coat to be altered.” Tarvek gestured toward the coat which Klaus had laid out on the bed. The maid crossed the room to retrieve the garment. “And Her Majesty should also have a dress. Please find something suitable from Princess Zeetha’s wardrobe.” With that, he turned to Klaus and Zanta and bowed. “If you’ll excuse me?” 

Without waiting to hear their response, he ushered the maid out of the room into the hallway. “Tell my valet to get my matching coat from my rooms for the extra material needed for His Highness’s coat. Don’t tell Their Majesties about it. Have someone prepare rooms for their fittings. This needs to be done by this evening.”

Her brown eyes went a little wide as she nodded, bobbing her head dutifully. “Yes, Sire.”

With that, she trotted off, jerking every few steps at the static from the coat.

Tarvek watched her go and sighed heavily. Still over five hours until the ball. If nothing else happened, he might actually survive the day with his wits intact.

That was a very big “if.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Klaus in this fic is Zanta's royal consort, making him a prince ("Your Highness," rather than "Your Majesty" - addressing them together, Tarvek uses "Your Majesties" in deference to Zanta's rank). Also, I'm using English forms of address, as the Germanic ones are... well, somewhat un-pronounce-able to someone who hasn't studied the language. 
> 
> Also, if you've never made a meringue before, even the tiniest bit of egg yolk ruins EVERYTHING. I once ruined 36 eggs in one day with a bit of yolk. :)
> 
> Much thanks to stellawind, my beta!


	2. In Which It Turns Into a Circus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Four hours in hand, and things get worse. There are unexpected guests to contend with, and Tarvek compensates for many issues by taking baths.
> 
> Thank you, thank you, thank you to [stellawind](archiveofourown.org/users/stellawind), a true gem among betas.

Tarvek walked quickly down the halls toward the front entrance. Of all the days for a damned Heterodyne show to turn up on his doorstep. He was supposed to be looking for Agatha! She could be anywhere, doing anything. For all he knew, she was asking the Jägers to sing the Mechanicsburg Tourism Song with bawdy new lyrics. But etiquette was etiquette, and greet the circus he would, just long enough to book a performance for the following evening, which he wouldn’t attend, but which would garner enough revenue to mollify their wounded feelings.

Long, purposeful strides rapidly carried him toward the impressive foyer where the circus members were gathered, waiting for his arrival. A large man with a bushy red beard at the front of the group met Tarvek’s gaze as he approached, while the others stared at the suits of armor, banners, and parquet floors, all of which were rather imposing. Multicolored light from the stained glass windows set their motley aglow with new colors in the afternoon sunlight. The red-headed man’s multiple waistcoats (were there really six, or was that merely a trick of creative stitching?) were afire with vermillion and gold, making him look like living flame.

The man bowed politely, but there was something in his demeanor which achieved an almost annoyed tone. Tarvek wasn’t entirely sure how this was possible, and decided he must’ve read too much into it. “I am Master Payne, and this is my Circus of Adventure.”

 _Oh, god_.

Flashes of memory streaked through Tarvek’s mind. Arriving late to the theater, eating caviar in the private box with his father. Skillful knife-throwing. A truly scandalous performance of _The Socket Wench of Prague_.

Finding Tinka amongst the brightly colored wagons, dancing for a group of awed customers. Moxana showing up in his lab.

His castle in shambles, a smoking ruin.

Instantly, Tarvek was on full alert. Were they here for revenge, perhaps compensation for the Muses? “Welcome to Sturmhalten, Master Payne,” he said carefully.

Master Payne inclined his head once in thanks. At his side, a tall, stately woman with a massive blonde chignon gave a stiff smile. Tarvek spared a thought as to how her thin, graceful neck could support such a mass of hair before meeting her clear blue eyes. “Allow me to present my wife, Countess Marie.”

“An honor, My Lady.” Tarvek bowed slightly to her, not even batting an eyelash at the lack of surname or specified family seat. Assuming her title wasn’t merely affectation, he could respect her desire for anonymity. He’d seen it in Paris often enough. “Should I assume you’re here to visit the Lady Heterodyne?”

The countess smiled at him. Her expression was a little stiff, but it was a very good imitation of genuine pleasure. If not for his family history, Tarvek doubted he’d have noticed that her smile was false. “It’s been so long since we’ve seen her. We couldn’t just pass through Balan’s Gap without saying hello.”

With only a minor effort, Tarvek managed not to glower. “I would imagine she has been notified of your arrival and should be here soon.”

“That’s what the previous servant said.” The countess narrowed her eyes. “The staff here is… not what I expected of the Storm King.”

Tarvek gritted his teeth. Great. Yet another problem with a staff member. How many more would he have to endure before the day’s end? “Who greeted you?”

“I didn’t catch his name,” she said slowly. “But I thought he’d have brought His Majesty, or at least Lady Heterodyne, by now.”

Had Tarvek’s upbringing been any less rigid, he might’ve screamed his frustration at the ceiling. He might not have been dressed in his royal finery, but his likeness was all over Europa, endorsing various products as well as appearing in gossip columns, news stories, on advertisements for operas and Heterodyne Girl plays alike.

“Madam.” If a note of cold stiffness crept into his voice, it was hardly his fault. “You have the pleasure of addressing Aaronev Tarvek Sturmvoraus, the Storm King, ruler of Europa and successor of Andronicus Valois.” When caught off guard, he could always fall back onto his royal persona.

The satisfaction which filled him at the sight of fear glinting in Payne’s and the countess’ eyes was enough to placate his injured feelings.

“Please forgive me, Majesty,” said the countess with as much gravitas as she could summon after such a grievous error. “We thought…”

“We didn’t know you’d come straight from your lab,” came a clear, sharp voice. Tarvek’s eyes were drawn to a blonde woman garbed somewhat garishly in vivid scarlet. Gaudy embroidery covered her skirts and bodice. Her eyes roved the room before coming to rest on him.

Tarvek raised a brow at this blue-eyed woman, clearly someone with a strong will and very little fear. “How very astute of you, Miss.”

“Well, where else could you have been?” she pointed out. “Your hair’s a rat’s nest and your nose is pretty badly bruised.”

_God. DAMN it._

He still hadn’t had a chance to wash the punch from his hair or change his clothes, which probably looked rather blood-stained around the shoulders, thanks to his punch-soaked hair. And his bruised nose ought to be positively kaleidoscopic by now.

Tarvek stood ramrod straight and applied a death grip to his forearms behind the small of his back, out of sight of the circus. It was all he could do to keep from snapping something at this _female_. She had all the tact of a… of a Jäger!

The woman craned her neck to examine her surroundings. “So this is Sturmhalten. It’s not as… grand as I’d expected.”

Tarvek felt his left eye twitch. If it was anything less than opulent, perhaps that was because a certain troupe of actors and jugglers had happened to it!

This girl clearly hadn’t been taught any better. He had. One of the marks of good breeding, Von Pinn had drilled into him, was not pointing out the faults of others or their property. Not that this stopped him from insulting Gil every chance he got, but Gil wasn’t a stranger, or his royal subject. Well, technically speaking…

But that was neither here nor there. “We’re still in the process of decorating for this evening, madam,” Tarvek said smoothly. Speaking of, he needed to check up on the ballroom to ensure the silk banners were under control. “Many things have been taken down for cleaning.”

“Hm.” The very picture of unmoved, the blonde lady took an idle step forward, arching her neck to get a better view of the massive buttresses arcing up to the vaulted ceiling. “That’s right. There’s a ball this evening.” Quickly, she _snapped_ – there was no other word for it – into a different stance.

Just like that, her whole demeanor changed, and an enchanting smile lit up her face. “I suppose you’ll need entertainment!”

“Pix!” A man with close-cropped curls and a goatee reached forward to grab her wrist. From his hissing tone, he knew exactly how insolent her behavior was.

But Pix was not to be deterred. Again, her eyes met Tarvek’s, and she positively oozed charm.

Tarvek cleared his throat briefly. Either she was an idiot, or she was steering the conversation, though in which direction, he couldn’t begin to guess. “Such arrangements have already been made, madam. Perhaps you could perform for us on another night.”

“Indeed, we could!” Pix volunteered cheerily, striking a pose. “One of our Heterodyne Girl plays, perhaps!”

Tarvek’s gaze returned to the countess and the master of the circus, wondering if they were going to step in at any point, or if Pix really ran the show. Both master and countess were staring frostily at him, as was everyone else.

 It was then Tarvek recalled that his last real dealing with the circus had entailed his kidnapping Agatha.

_Oh._

All things considered, Tarvek was rather impressed that nothing had been vandalized or attacked so far.

“I play the Lady Heterodyne,” chirped Pix before Tarvek could say anything. “We’ve got the whole cast! We could play any story you like.” Tarvek scanned the faces in the crowd, taking in the faces he vaguely recalled from their last performance in Balan’s Gap. The grizzled man with the eye patch had played Klaus and had thrown a lot of pies. There was a burly, middle-aged man who had played Punch, too. A pale woman with frosted pince-nez had sung about not having any bananas.

His eyes settled on a conventionally handsome man with a firm jaw and biceps big enough to indicate strength, but not so large as to appear intimidating. Sandy brown curls shadowed soft eyes with a wicked gleam, indicating either a sense of humor or a philandering nature. And there was something distinctly proud, almost regal, in his carriage. In the right color wig, this man would make a perfect Storm King.

Well, so long as Agatha was going to show up soon, Tarvek could pursue Pix’s line of monologue further. “Do tell, madam.” It might be fun to know who played him.

Pix’s eyes lit with a glee bordering on the unholy, and Tarvek wondered if his request had been a mistake. “We’ve got the former baron, of course,” the man with the eye patch nodded his head at Tarvek.

“And his daughter, the Lost Princess,” came the countess’s strident tones. Tarvek turned to see her indicate an olive-skinned woman with strong Italian features. Her skimpy green costume consisted of so little material, it would’ve been considered scandalous at any French beach. Golden skulls utterly festooned her barbaric dress, dripping from bracelets, earrings, and a towering feathered headdress. A barbaric Skifandrian, indeed.

Several minor and supporting roles were pointed out, from Violetta (the woman who’d sung about the lack of bananas) to Krosp (a strangely short man with dark skin). Tarvek nodded to each in their turn as they were called upon.

“And who, may I ask, plays Prince Wulfenbach?” Tarvek asked after a long series of introductions.

“Ah, that would be Herr de la Scalla!” Pix wrapped both arms around the curly-headed man’s elbow, yanking him out into the open. He looked rather indignant at this treatment, but he kept from protesting. Instead, he recovered himself and stood straighter, his arm now held at an angle appropriate for a lady to cling to.

Tarvek felt a grin spreading across his face and he covered it quickly with a hand. This de la Scalla hardly possessed the air of the dashing swashbuckler which he’d expected of an actor playing Gil. He wouldn’t be the type to swan in, shirt artfully open or with a dramatically billowing great coat. This was a man built to play up humor, madness, and his role as the Lady Heterodyne’s lackey.

And of course, the only candidate left for the Storm King was… He glanced back to the rakish-looking man with the dashing, heroic air, but he did not address him.

Instead, Tarvek returned to Pix. “He looks as though he’d do the job credibly,” he said easily. “You’ll forgive me for seeming vain, but who plays the part of the Storm King?”

Pix’s smile grew wider by the second. “That would be Dame Ædith!”

For a moment, Tarvek wasn’t sure he’d heard correctly. But he followed Pix’s finger to a woman in a purple cloak and a pointed hat, a bat fluttering and screeching around her head as she waved her hands at it. Her muffled grunts mingled with the squeaks of the bat before it hooked its claws into the point of her hat, which promptly bent forward under its weight.

The moment she realized she was the subject of Tarvek’s attention, she drew herself up. The bat bobbed precariously on the end of her hat. “I’ve heard Sturmhalten Castle is remarkably free of vampires,” she announced, as though bestowing a benediction.

Tarvek cleared his throat to stall his response, not immediately sure what to say to the woman. “I’ve never encountered any, Madam.”

It was well-known that many Heterodyne shows and other commedia dell’arte performances used cross-dressing for humorous effect. Tarvek, who had seen Judy frequently played by a man in drag, was aware of this, and wouldn’t have minded the role of Storm King going to a professional cross-dressing Parisian woman with the proper panache and élan. But this woman, whose dark, voluminous robes were glittering with religious pendants of every nature and origin, the woman with a pipistrelle besieging her headgear? Really?

Next to Pix in the role of Agatha and de la Scalla as Gil, Dame Ædith would be completely upstaged! Her unfocused, twitchy demeanor next to their firmly established characters would pigeonhole her as the ingénue.

Tarvek gestured to the roguish man. “Does this good gentleman have a role?” he asked, praying silently that no one noticed his voice cracking.

“Indeed, he does!” Pix announced. “He plays von Zinzer!”

Tarvek was spared by Agatha’s joyous cry and Zeetha’s jubilant shouts as they both ran into the foyer to greet their old companions. Tarvek wasn’t quite sure the floor hadn’t fallen out from beneath him. That strong, handsome devil with the self-assured manner played _Moloch von Zinzer,_ while he, the Storm King, was played by this woman with a bat hanging from her hat?

Distantly, the sounds of the circus were coming back to Tarvek as he surfaced from his horrified reverie. Agatha and Zeetha were engulfed in the midst of the troupe, gleefully laughing and greeting old friends with loud exclamations. Her golden cowlicks soared above the crowd. Nothing could ever be done with her hair, but she always managed to look stunning, anyway.

“She’s an amazing woman, our Agatha.”

“Yes,” Tarvek said simply. “She is.” He turned to see Countess Marie standing beside him, watching the reunion from a distance. She smiled at him, just a little.

“You almost can’t help but love her.”

“Almost?” Tarvek repeated mildly. In his opinion, there was never any question about it.

The Countess smiled in earnest, now. “I’m glad to see you genuinely care for her.” He turned to face her properly. Marie scanned Tarvek briefly from head to toe, her quick and astute gaze taking in something which Tarvek couldn’t divine. She nodded once, decisively, before continuing. “I’d hoped that was the case. If not, I’d have been forced to do something rash.”

Had that frying pan been in her hands before?

Tarvek was conscious of the way the circus members were milling more freely about the room, dispersing a little to give Agatha a bit more space. A muscular man and a dark-skinned woman with tightly curled hair stood on his right, discussing what tools they might sell in Balan’s Gap that evening.

“Now, now, Countess,” Payne chided. He stood just behind the countess, not quite touching her, but there was something in their closeness indicating a level of intimacy which didn’t require physical contact. “Don’t threaten the king. After all, our Agatha has Zeetha to fend off any who wish her ill.”

The crowd parted just enough for them to see Agatha as she turned to see Master Payne and the countess, whom she had yet to personally greet. Her gaze shifted from them to fall on Tarvek, and she lit up. “Everyone!” she called. “Have you met Tarvek?”

“Oh, yes!” said the bespectacled woman who played Violetta. “I’d say he knows us pretty well by now!”

“Indeed!” Still dazed, Tarvek was nearly driven to his knees by a hearty smack to his back. A Slavic-looking man with a heavy jaw and a mechanical hand stood behind him, grinning. “We’re practically old friends by now, eh, Your Majesty?”

Agatha raised an eyebrow inquiringly, but Tarvek swiftly cut in, stepping away from the clank-handed man. That he’d been able to get that close to him grated on his nerves. “Very true. I’m sure you’d prefer to reminisce rather than entertaining me. And I have things I must see to.”

“We understand, Majesty,” the countess said primly, her tone one of agreement. Tarvek saw that her frying pan was now gone. What had she done with it?

Agatha’s face fell, just a little. “All right.”

“We should book them to perform later,” Zeetha decided with a smile. “Gotta see what the new Heterodyne Girl plays are like. Perhaps the star performer here could reprise her role as her mother!” She elbowed Agatha, whose answering grin was less than genuine.

Tarvek, too, forced a smile at this image, which hit a little too close to home, before turning to Master Payne and the countess. “Please excuse me, my lady. Master Payne.” He nodded to Agatha and Zeetha once, then turned to leave, just in time to see a stampede of Jägers, smelling horrendously like, well, there was no mistaking the malodorous reek of a sewer, as they passed through the next corridor.

Silence held sway after the Jägers’ departure, though the scent lingered. Tarvek wrinkled his nose. “Agatha,” he began slowly, staring at the mess of puddles marking the Jägermonsters’ trail. “Could you shed any light on… that?”

There was a long pause before Agatha responded. “They’ll be clean by tonight, I’m sure!”

If they weren’t, Tarvek thought, he would lock them in the dungeons himself. The Jägers were supposed to comprise a good third of the guards for that evening, and he’d be damned if a lot of sewer-stinking Heterodyne monsters would contaminate his ballroom and scare his guests.

“Oh,” was what he said out loud. “Good.”

With that, he beat a hasty retreat back to his room.

En route, he was intercepted by his seneschal, Stefan Artacz, who, upon seeing Tarvek’s exasperated expression, promptly hid his face behind his clipboard.

“Beg pardon, Your Majesty, but you are wanted in the wine cellar.” Panic wavered in his voice.

Tarvek sighed. Stefan’s father had served Prince Aaronev Wilhelm, but had since retired. Stefan was still getting used to his new position, clearly. That, and Tarvek’s shoulders were stained red and his nose had become the shade of purple usually seen on ripe plums. His appearance couldn’t be described as reassuring.

But there was something downright pitiful about the way Stefan was hunkered down in the middle of the corridor that Tarvek found oddly comforting. At least he wasn’t the only miserable one in Sturmhalten.

“What’s going on _now_?” After the earlier incident with the wine bottle, Tarvek wasn’t sure he wouldn’t use his sommelier for spare parts in his next experiment if he’d caused some new catastrophe.

Stefan clutched his clipboard more tightly and shivered. “Um. They’ve made the punch you requested, Sire. I think, um.” Stefan swallowed. “You should see what. Um.”

Tarvek bit his tongue and took in several deep breaths before speaking. “How much did Costache ruin and what did he use?” Sweet science, he wondered privately, why wasn’t someone _else_ dealing with this?

“I don’t think Costache was entirely sober…”

Best to get it over and done with. “I’ll go see what he’s up to,” Tarvek sighed heavily. Stefan nodded and bowed simultaneously, resulting in a ridiculous motion that threatened to send him pitching forward onto the cold stone floor. “Artacz?”

“Sire?”

“Have someone go into town and purchase new ball gowns for Lady Mondarev and Princess Zeetha. Have them tailored this afternoon. And…” Tarvek watched Stefan’s pupils dilate in horror. “Just keep the place running. Surely you can do that much.”

If that last command came out as a growl, it wasn’t as though it was unjustified.

“Yes, Sire! Of course! I’ll alert the staff immediately!” With that, Stefan scuttled away, burgundy frock coat flapping behind him pathetically.

Tarvek snorted as he stomped down the hallway toward the staircase that would take him down to the wine cellar.

All he wanted was to take a bath, wash the punch from his hair, read a book, and be left in peace for the duration of the afternoon, but clearly, that was a fate reserved for royalty who could effectively manage their own castles.

As it was, he had a drunk sommelier who had done something unspeakable to contend with, and the unhappy prospect of asking Violetta to borrow her cosmetics to cover his bruised nose, as his were lost somewhere in Castle Heterodyne. Tarvek still maintained that the Castle liked to hold hostage various everyday items against his and Gil’s permanent attendance there in hopes of speeding up Agatha’s producing an heir.

Though, he reasoned after a moment’s contemplation, asking Violetta for anything after her magnificent gown had just been ruined was probably not in his best interests. He’d have to find something else, curse it.

At least four times on his trip to the cellars, servants had approached Tarvek in the halls, and upon seeing his face, they’d frozen in terror before retreating. One had actually run face-first into a wall in her haste to flee.

Finally, Tarvek reached the kitchen, a rather unfamiliar area to him. While technically speaking, the master of any home was not to enter the area where the servants worked or resided, Tarvek’s avoidance of the area had more to do with the disposition of the head cook, Lapointe. A muscular woman with the patience of an ice block in a furnace, it was rumored by Sturmhalten’s servants and staff that Josée Lapointe must have had some degree of Heterodyne ancestry. Her temper, at least, made that plausible, but on the other hand, Lapointe had a profound loathing of anything more complex than a wood-burning stove. No Spark creations were allowed in her kitchen on pain of, well, pain.

Thus, Tarvek maintained a diet of old-fashioned French cooking without fear of experimentation beyond the amount of thyme which seasoned his chicken or red wine in his boeuf bourguignon. The trade-off was a high turn-over rate amongst the kitchen staff and no small trauma from the last time Tarvek had trespassed into Lapointe’s territory.

The shouting reached his ears long before he set foot into the kitchens, all in French. “And _what_ His Majesty will think, I don’t want to imagine! Sit down, drink your coffee, and _sober up!_ ”

Costache must have already been in the kitchen, Tarvek guessed, and sure enough, the man sat slumped in a corner, nursing a steaming mug of black coffee. His expression mingled as much astonishment and fear as could be managed by someone who’d not an hour before consumed an entire bottle of fifty-year-old cabernet sauvignon.

“Majesté!” Lapointe’s booming voice cut through the air and Tarvek turned. She stood there, arms folded across her broad chest. “Voilà! This flea! He is not fit to _breathe_!”

The fact that she’d not yet bodily thrown him into the hallway was a good sign, at least. Tarvek crossed his arms and ignored the bevy of kitchen staff, each of whom was having a minor crisis about whether or not they should bow to their king or follow Lapointe’s wishes and continue chopping parsley and stirring sauces. “What has he done?”

“ _Look_ at the punch!” she bellowed, reverting to Romanian, which was also a good sign. Prolonged French usually indicated a temper boiling so strongly that it was tantamount to evaporation. “Taste it!”

A ladle was produced from some terrified sous-chef, who then dipped it into a large vat of dark liquid on which slices of fruits bobbed merrily. It certainly _looked_ fine. The ladle, full of a sample of the stuff, was given to Tarvek, who sniffed it. Perhaps a little too sweet-smelling, but then again, that might be the fruit, and not whatever comprised the base of the punch itself.

He took a delicate sip.

A numb sensation began at the top of Tarvek’s head and slid down his back and into the pit of his stomach. No. _NO._

 _Not_ the last barrel of Dalca 1794. _Not_ the last remaining wine produced by the vines engineered and planted by van Rijn himself!

 _Mixed_ with _sugar and fruit slices._

Costache, the sommelier, drunk off of the wine Tarvek had been saving for his wedding night, had not used the barrel of unexceptional sweet red for the base of the punch to be served at the ball that night. No, he had cracked open the barrel of Dalca, which Tarvek had deliberately mislabeled as a mid-grade wine he’d said he’d wanted to age. The Dalca 1794 was, to Tarvek’s knowledge, the last barrel in existence of the wine from van Rijn’s vineyard prior to its burning down fifty years ago. Van Rijn might not have had a great knowledge of horticulture, but, being a Spark, that hadn’t stopped him from dabbling.

And Tarvek, now beginning to feel his own Spark rise within him, was of half a mind to throw Costache to the dogs and use what was left for fertilizer for his own damn vineyard. A fitting end for the soon-to-be-former keeper of Sturmhalten’s wine cellar.

Costache must’ve sensed his impending fate, for his face was now a ghastly shade of white. He sipped at the cup of black coffee he’d been given as he huddled in the corner, trying to become as unnoticeable as possible.

Tarvek was distantly aware of Lapointe swearing in French. Costache hunkered down further and stared bleakly into his coffee, his expression as hopeless as though he were about to be sent to the firing squad. Given what Tarvek had in mind at that moment, the firing squad was a kinder option.

“Why would you use such wine? Can you not read the labels? Follow directions?” Lapointe waved a wooden spoon furiously, gesturing wildly and somehow managing to avoid actually hitting anyone or anything.

Tarvek took in a deep breath through his nose, willing himself to calm down. Costache could be dealt with later and there were more pressing matters at hand, like locating a useable cosmetic product for his nose, and finding out why Gil was still gone.

“Sack him, Majesté!” Lapointe bellowed. Tarvek turned to her. Her dark skin was damp with mingled sweat and steam. Her heavily muscled arms crossed resolutely over her chest. Tarvek got the impression that if he didn’t do something to Costache, she would, and it would undoubtedly be worse, which was saying something.

Costache actually began to tremble in his corner, slopping coffee onto his white shirt and the dark flagstones of the floor.

Tarvek opened his mouth to speak, but was prevented by another voice calling out, “A message for His Majesty!”

Into the kitchen ran a little redheaded girl bearing an envelope sealed in dark blue wax with a Wulfenbach sigil. Word from Gil!

Tarvek mumbled some kind of thanks and tore open the envelope.

_Tarvek:_

_I’ll probably be back by the time you get this. Sorry for the hold-up, but the clank was giving us more trouble than we anticipated. We’re fine, and the situation is sticky (there was some caramel involved), but it’s being handled. Hope you’re having fun with my parents!_

_Love,_

_Gilgamesh_

Now, that was just low. Fun with his parents, indeed. Gil himself was probably prolonging his little adventure simply to avoid Klaus and Zanta. Tarvek glared at the note, silently admitting that Gil might be onto something with using brute force to smash clanks to a pulp.

He turned to the girl, who was still standing there, waiting patiently. “When did you get this?”

“Not five minutes ago, Sire. It was delivered by a flying messenger clank.”

Tarvek exhaled a long, slow breath out through his nose. If Gil was in residence, he’d have been informed immediately. If that note was to be believed, Gil was shortly to return. Well, at least that was _one_ weight off his mind.

Tarvek crumpled the note in his fist. There was nothing to be done about the Dalca. The kitchen had grown silent as he’d read. Even Lapointe was quiet. Tarvek turned to Costache, who shuddered and huddled into himself. “Go back to your room and stay there. Sober up. I’ll deal with you later.”

Costache nodded, fear and drunkenness creating a red-and-white blotchy stain across his cheeks.

“Serve the punch as it is,” Tarvek continued. “Say nothing about what kind it is. We’re going for lavish, not vulgar. We’re telling no one that’s genuine Dalca.” Somewhere in the kitchen, a metal utensil tinged as it fell to the floor. A few scattered gasps were heard. Not everyone had known the extent of Costache’s error. “Lapointe, find someone to serve wine tonight. We’re offering our most generic chardonnay, merlot, pinot noir, and champagne. That’s _all_.”

With that, Tarvek stalked out into the hallway.

That Dalca.

Tarvek quietly mourned the loss of the wine, made from van Rijn’s own vines, too. It wasn’t that it tasted particularly good. Truth be told, the sugar and fruit had actually improved it. But it was the principle of the thing. That was genuine _Dalca_. Tarvek hadn’t quite pinned down an exact usage for it. Something suitably grand which required an extra touch of status or legacy. He’d toyed with the idea of serving it at the birth of his first child, or perhaps upon celebrating his fifth anniversary as Storm King. There wasn’t much point in planning anniversary galas beyond that. Between Agatha, Gil, and his family, Tarvek reasoned he wouldn’t last until his fiftieth birthday, let alone his fiftieth anniversary as Storm King.

Tarvek shook his head. He was being petulant and dramatic, and he knew it. And he had more to worry about than the loss of a cask of wine he didn’t even like. Such as preventing a new crisis from razing his castle to the ground, or whatever disaster the Jägers could be causing.

He shuddered, recalling the sewer muck they’d tracked into his castle. What in the name of science had they gotten up to?

He quickly abandoned that train of thought, not wanting to imagine the possibilities.

With a loud sigh, Tarvek retreated to his room for a proper soak in the bathtub. A little over four hours in hand until the ball began. He had time to relax before he needed to check up on the silk decorations again, and after, there would probably still be time to fix the fountain. He was pretty certain he knew where he’d gone wrong.

The cold bathwater was drained and replaced with fresh, hot water, to which Tarvek added the correct bath salts this time. He had to step carefully over the cold tiles of the bathroom floor, covered in a minefield of broken china and splattered coconut cake, but once he was settled in the tub with his book, Tarvek felt better. Still tense, perhaps, but that was to be expected.

After a nice, long soak, Tarvek eventually set down the Trelawney Thorpe novel to wash the punch from his hair. Once he’d treated it with a musk-scented conditioner, he stood, dripping, and reached for his towel. When he realized it wasn’t there, he remembered he’d left it lying on his bedroom floor in a heap.

Feeling as magnanimous as anyone with Jägers and a circus loose in his castle _could_ feel, Tarvek stepped from the tub and tiptoed around the shards of china into his bedroom. Once he’d retrieved the towel, he hastily returned to the warm bathroom. Sturmhalten’s heating system might’ve been top notch, but it couldn’t combat the temperature differences of a steam-filled bathroom and a bedchamber with two outside walls exposed to the northern winds.

After several minutes of drying and styling his hair, the bathroom mirror was free from steam, giving Tarvek a better look at his bruised nose. As he’d suspected, his earlier altercation with the punch fountain had left his nose a bright red, edging into a deep shade of violet. It certainly was swollen, too. He winced. Nothing could be done to camouflage that, but the color was fixable.

Tarvek found himself a dark set of clothes (wearing white yet again was tempting fate, he decided) and searched among his various products and cosmetics for something which could mask the vibrant coloration of his bruised nose.

Some of Agatha’s cosmetics were on his vanity table, he saw, evidence of her gradual abandonment of her own bedchamber in favor of his. She might not have his exact skin tone, but it would be close enough.

Probably.

He settled down on his satin-covered bench before the vanity and stared blankly at the mirror, which was covered in equations written in… lipstick? Tarvek raised an eyebrow as he puzzled out the scribbles and notes. Something Agatha had written, no doubt, and it seemed to be related to the rates of gravity vis-à-vis the speed of a projectile – no, an airship? Perhaps Gil’s flying machine?

Tarvek scowled. The bathroom mirror was always an option, but he dismissed the notion. The lighting really was superior at his vanity, and given the importance of the occasion, he shouldn’t use anything second-best in making up his face. That would require transferring Agatha’s equations to a notepad. He shuddered to think what she’d do if her work was lost.

Heaving a sigh the likes of which only the truly put-upon can achieve, Tarvek got to his feet and returned to his bedroom to find notepaper and a pen.

Agatha’s writing was tricky to puzzle out. Tarvek blamed the near-illegibility for preventing him from Sparking out while jotting them all down. It was, as he’d expected, excellent work. Just… inconveniently located and hard to parse out.

Finally, the task was done, and he reached for a towel to begin wiping off the worst of the stuff. One swipe across the middle of it was enough to drive him to the edge of despair.

Of _course_ she’d used the lipstick he’d found in Paris for her. The stuff was as crimson as blood, and, he’d been assured by the vendor, was proof against water, smudging, and just about everything else, including time. Tarvek had taken this as overenthusiastic endorsement of the product, which had been a mistake. They’d discovered very soon that the lipstick would only come off with the aid of a rather sulfurous solution, and without it, stayed for frighteningly long periods of time. This had been tested extensively by the three of them, which had led to Gil’s face being smeared with the stuff for several hours before Tarvek and Agatha obligingly brewed up a batch of the stuff to remove it.

Tarvek was not about to get that stuff off his mirror any time soon unless he brewed up a draft immediately. At least, he thought gloomily, he could get something to eat while it was simmering. He really ought to eat something before the ball, if only to avoid eating in front of guests. Tarvek didn’t much like eating in front of other people, especially not while standing. How was one to balance a plate, cutlery, and a glass?

Sighing, Tarvek abandoned the lipstick-covered mirror and headed for his laboratory.

Tarvek was in the middle of gathering various bottles and jars of ingredients before he realized the fountain in the center of the lab was perfectly intact.

He frowned. When he’d last seen it, the lab had been in disarray. It still was, just a little, but the glass shards from his flasks and test tubes had been gathered into a pile on his workbench, his papers lined up on the floor individually to better dry. A good deal of punch had been mopped up, and the gold-plated, cherub-covered fountain stood there, whole and perfect.

Tarvek set down his load on a table and crossed the room to stare at the fountain more closely. The gold gleamed clean and bright in the mid-afternoon sun. Every crack and fissure had been repaired expertly, and the cherubs holding up the main basin had been redesigned as Agatha had suggested to him while he’d bathed.

Agatha.

Tarvek began to laugh softly to himself as his fingers traced one of the cherub’s curly locks. What had he ever done to deserve her?

Silly question. Not only had he built her more death rays than he could shake a stick at, he’d redesigned Vorthang Heterodyne’s Sunday-best battle armor and had painted it her favorite shade of green. Not that Agatha’s affection could be bought, but a girl liked to be spoiled now and again, and Agatha had positively melted when presented with the armor.

So, in fact, had the Mechanicsburg storefront she’d accidentally tested it on. The shopkeeper had assured her it was his pleasure to be able to watch the mistress in action, and that it was no trouble, though Agatha had paid for the damages, anyway.

Well. At least he’d done his best to create gifts worthy of her terrible magnificence, even if he didn’t deserve her. She seemed to like them, and that was something.

That lipstick, Tarvek reflected after several moments of admiring the punch fountain, wasn’t going to clean itself. He lamented not being able to store the cleaning solution, which only worked when freshly made. Luckily, it didn’t take long to make.

Tarvek donned a pair of goggles, thick rubber gloves, and a canvas apron over his clothes and lit the gas on a small ring burner. After finding the correct size of glass beaker, he began adding ingredients. Soon, he’d be able to leave it and retrieve a single marigold from the gardens behind Sturmhalten, the final ingredient in the solution. There were, as he recalled, still a few which hadn’t been affected by the frost, thanks to some long-forgotten Spark’s tampering.

Without removing his protective gear, Tarvek left the solution to simmer and headed down to the gardens. Leaving on his lab wear would imply the presence of the Spark, which might minimize the amount of interaction he’d have with harried servants and staff.

He was correct in that, at least, and had to fight off a dark chuckle after he watched Stefan flee in the opposite direction at his approach. His day was rotten enough that the sight of someone having an even worse day felt rather gratifying.

The gardens of Sturmhalten were a carefully manicured and cultivated place, including a hedge maze, stone paths winding around patches of flowers from every corner of the known world, and multiple fountains. Built by Andronicus Valois, the gardens were reminiscent of the grounds of the Palace of Enlightenment, a respite from the cold, inhospitable mountains where Sturmhalten stood.

Late fall really wasn’t the best time to view the gardens, but they remained awe-inspiring, thanks to a team of expert gardeners. Marigolds and chrysanthemums flourished, as did maple trees, all in full autumn glory. Scarlet, orange, and gold tones produced a riotous blaze, blending sweetly with the magenta tones of moss campion and violet bellflowers.

Next to this vibrancy, Tarvek did not immediately notice the group of Jägermonsters bathing in the fountains, but once he did, they provided an ample distraction from the resplendence of nature.

Tarvek stared in open-mouthed horror at the scene. Trampled flowerbeds were in heavy evidence, along with the water, now running a light brown thanks to the Jägers’ recent trip into what Tarvek assumed was Sturmhalten’s sewer system. Unconcerned with their racket or the disarray they’d caused, they all laughed merrily, splashing each other with water and dunking one another’s heads under the spray.

“Hoy!” cried one of the Jägers upon spotting Tarvek, who was slowly recoiling from the scene, utterly appalled. “Eet’s de Shtormy King!”

“Hoy, King!” shouted several of the others.

“Iz hyu going to vear a fancy crown tonight?” called a Jäger with cobalt-blue fur and horns the size of her arms. “Hyu fanciest crown?”

A ruddy red-brown Jäger lit up at this and grinned, showing more teeth than should’ve logically fit into his mouth. “Ve should make him a hat like Master Gilgamesh!”

Tarvek turned a rather hilarious shade of puce, which was helpfully pointed out by the three Jägers who were delicately rinsing their hats off under a spout.

Wordlessly, he turned on heel and marched back inside. He was halfway back to his lab when he remembered he’d forgotten his marigold. With only the minimum amount of comments on how he should make a crown that was four feet tall (no less than seven opinions were aired), Tarvek retrieved a marigold and privately agreed with whomever created the language of flowers that marigolds did, indeed, stand for pain and grief, though a pack of sopping wet Jägermonsters and a half-destroyed garden might not have been the kind of grief intended.

Relatively safe back in his lab (safety in a Spark’s lab was always relative), Tarvek began chopping the marigold’s petals into a fine mince, which he added to the solution, which was bubbling merrily, though producing a foul stench of sulfur. The marigold did little to mitigate this, but at least the potion would be completed in a few minutes. Then, his mirror could be cleaned and he could apply his makeup and perhaps not look like a stage villain who’d gone three rounds with Bill Heterodyne in a play.

The potion was finished with no disasters, and Tarvek picked up the beaker to take it back to his chambers. Despite the Jägers, his afternoon had vastly improved with the knowledge of the completed fountain. He might, after all, have time to lie down and read a book for a while, or listen to the Storm King opera on his new cylinder phonograph, an invention which he highly enjoyed.

Tarvek took his time strolling down the halls, blithely contemplating that the worst of his day was over and he could have a nice snack and maybe a nap prior to the ball, once the mirror was cleaned.

That was before the troupe of Jägers, soaking wet but no longer reeking of sewage, barreled through the hall, knocking him to one side. He watched as the beaker slipped from his grasp, spilling its contents all over his shirt before slowly, agonizingly answering the call of gravity.

A hideous smash sounded, and the solution was lost to Tarvek.

If it hadn’t been for the spray of broken glass covering the floor, Tarvek might’ve sunk to his knees in despair. As it was, he leaned weakly against one wall and took in several deep breaths – through his mouth, so as not to offend his nostrils.

A dull numbness set into Tarvek’s mind, and without a word or even a whimper, he walked back to his chambers to take his third bath of the afternoon.

Stubbornly, a sulfur-scented Tarvek ordered a plate of éclairs be sent to his room. While waiting, he filled the tub anew and reached for the pine bath salts, whereupon the lid of the jar came undone, spilling all its contents into the steaming water.

Well, it was still better than honeysuckle, and considering the horrid sulfur smell now clinging to his skin, the amount of salts was probably merited. A knock sounded, and Tarvek retrieved the plate of pastries before sequestering himself in his bathtub, book and all.

Four chocolate éclairs and three chapters later, Tarvek decided he was probably sufficiently clean, and again, he rose. He held the hot air machine to his head, hoping that its second application in as many hours wouldn’t rob his hair of its healthy gleam, then dressed in a nondescript shirt and trousers he wore when anticipating messes in the laboratory.

After retrieving Agatha’s cover-up from the vanity, he returned to the bathroom. The lighting there wasn’t quite as nice, but it would have to do.

The small pot of makeup sat perched on the edge of the sink next to his engagement ring, which he’d taken off for his bath so as not to mar its gleam with the chalky finish of dried salts. It had been he who had insisted that they all have engagement rings, which was a relatively new trend amongst the aristocracy. He’d not particularly cared that such rings were typically only worn by ladies. Besides, he’d designed the rings himself, clever little things which would interlock with their wedding rings to form lightning bolt shapes. In addition to diamonds, Tarvek’s had rubies to Gil’s sapphires and Agatha’s emeralds.

After setting his glasses next to the ring and makeup, Tarvek dabbed a tiny amount of the cover-up on his index finger. Gingerly, he raised it to his nose and—

Tarvek jerked as a knock sounded at his door. His elbow, braced on the porcelain edge of the sink, slipped, knocking the cover-up jar, his glasses, and the ring into the sink.

In slow motion, Tarvek watched as the ring bounced around the fallen glasses, makeup, and the sides of the sink, before falling down the depths of the drain.

Tarvek swore blackly and gripped the edges of the sink, peering down into the pipe. There was his ring, sitting at the base of the pipe’s curve, glinting just out of reach. For a long moment, all he could do was stare at it. A knock sounded again. “I’m coming!” he shouted, even though it was uncouth.

Yet another damned inconvenience. Now, he’d have to have someone come in and take apart the pipes before this evening. At least that was a relatively minor task. He could probably do it himself if he took the trouble to fetch his tools. The sink could probably do with a more efficient pipe design, anyway.

Carefully, Tarvek replaced his glasses on his nose and picked his way through to the door of his bedchamber. The maid at the door gave a hypersonic squeak and immediately fisted her hands into her apron when greeted with Tarvek’s thunderous expression. “Majesty! I—that is, the circus—”

Cold dread began to fill Tarvek as he imagined what in the name of the Muses could be going on now. “What have they done?”

“Leaving, Sire! The Muses—”

Tarvek was flying down the hall at top speed before she could utter another word.

They can’t! They wouldn’t!

Of _course_ they could, and would!

Oh, he would rain down fire and lightning upon them if they’d done anything to his Muses! He had all nine in residence after years of searching. He’d only completed the repairs on Liza and Mawu a month ago, and they were to be present at the ball that night, an exhibition to wow even those who doubted his claim to the Lightning Crown.

And that circus would reclaim Tinka and Moxana over his dead body.

Of course, if it came to that, he supposed Agatha could bring him back again, though he’d prefer not to let anyone know he’d been revived once, let alone twice.

Tarvek’s bare feet smacked against the stone as he leapt down stairs and corridors on the way toward the front foyer. Why had Agatha left them unsupervised? Surely she hadn’t helped them make off with his precious Muses!

As there was no sign of anyone in the foyer, Tarvek glanced out the windows. It was difficult through the stained glass, but that might’ve been an airship outside. Instantly, he vaulted forward through the massive doors, out into the golden light of late afternoon.

Sure enough, a large, garishly painted airship hovered over the deactivated lightning moat. From the dirigible hung a rope ladder, onto which clung several bodies as the airship lifted off the ground. It took Tarvek a moment, but he saw a bright metallic glint shimmer over several of the ladder’s climbers. No.

_NO!_

And at the bottom of the ladder was Master Payne himself. Tarvek’s appearance had caught his eye, and he turned with an expansive gesture, one hand maintaining an iron grip on the ladder. “Your Majesty! Alas, the final curtain is about to fall! We thank you for your hospitality.”

“MY MUSES!” Tarvek shouted at him. “HOW DID YOU GET MY MUSES?” They were clearly there of their own accord, hanging onto the ladder and peering down at him with their perpetually impassive expressions.

“A good magician never reveals his secrets!” Master Payne called out dramatically as the airship gained height.

“BRING THEM BACK!”

“Young master, we will return!” Otilia’s voice drifted down to him. “This is not goodbye forever.”

“Indeed not!” Tinka added. “Moxana and I missed the circus! We will be back!”

“We were not made to be shown off,” Mawu added.

“We were made to advise,” Liza finished. “We are not playthings. We are tools.”

“You shall be well-protected by the Heterodyne constructs,” Otilia pointed out. “No harm shall befall you.”

Tarvek stared in mute horror. They hadn’t been stolen. They’d _left_.

How he returned to his room and at what speed, Tarvek couldn’t remember, but he had to get them back – _had_ to! If they wanted to go on a grand holiday after the ball, well, he supposed he could let them, but… but…

Dammit, the trouble he’d gone to in locating them had inspired a three-cycle opera in Paris, and the expense, well. The less said about the language his treasurer had used, the better. Repairing them had meant countless nights without sleep. He’d reunited them, brought them back to their fully functioning glory, and now _this_?

It wasn’t like they’d ever given him any advice anyway, beyond Von Pinn!

If he could only catch up to them, he could surely talk them around.

Tarvek rummaged through the drawers on his vanity, digging through it until he found the bottle he sought. A small yellow label proclaimed it to be Doit number 4. That ought to give him the boost he needed to follow them and get them back before the evening. He might even have enough time to dress up afterwards… or perhaps he could just make a grand entrance, Muses in tow and shirt artfully open in a cool evening breeze.

The spectacle might even impress Gil.

Tarvek raised the bottle to his lips, taking a quick swallow and grimacing at the bitter taste. He slammed the vial back down onto the table and turned to call for a servant to prepare his heavier-than-air flying machine, an invention of Gil’s which had almost certainly been more of a dare than a present.

A sudden wooziness made Tarvek blink hard. What? What was…? He looked back at the bottle. Doit, it read. But the drooping of his eyelids told a different tale.

Gil. It had to be… Gil’s fault…

And with that, Tarvek fell flat on his face and slept.


	3. Light Dawns

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The ball begins. Tarvek is about as ready as he'll ever be, which isn't saying a whole lot.  
> Beta'd by [stellawind](http://archiveofourown.org/users/stellawind/pseuds/stellawind), the best beta in the land!

**Chapter 3**

Sleep. He should probably continue sleeping. It couldn’t be morning yet.

Slowly, sluggishly, some semblance of consciousness formed in Tarvek’s mind, dragging him into wakefulness. Feeling pleasantly blank and relaxed, he snuggled deeper into…

Wait.

He was lying not on a soft mattress, burrowed in his cozy eiderdown, but on something very cold and unyielding. His eyes snapped open. Why was he on his bedroom floor?

It hit him all at once. The ball. The dresses, the decorations, the fountains, the wine, the circus, the _Muses_ …

Tarvek pushed himself up forcefully, then clapped a hand to his forehead as the room began to spin. Sitting up too quickly after – that’s right, he’d tried to drink a dose of Moveit. Clearly, he’d taken something else.

Slowly, Tarvek got to his feet and walked back toward the vanity where he’d left the empty bottle. A quick sniff of the vial told him it was probably a low-strength dose of some kind of hypnotic. Chloral hydrate, perhaps?

It was Gil’s fault. It _had_ to be. Gil had often scolded Tarvek for his cavalier usage of chemicals to boost his performance and keep himself awake. Tarvek thought this was rich coming from Gil, who had tried to run the Wulfenbach Empire for years on next to no sleep, in a near-constant Spark fugue. The resultant argument culminated in Gil issuing multiple threats to switch one of Tarvek’s Moveit potions with a hypnotic, just to see what happened.

Clearly, he’d made good on his threats.

Tarvek groaned in frustration. Of all the times for him to take action… it was a good thing Tarvek hadn’t eaten or drunk anything which could’ve reacted with it. He’d definitely be having words with Gil about that. The man had doctorates in the plural, some of them medical – he should’ve known better.

In the meantime, he had other matters at hand. What time was it? How much had he missed? Was the ball already in swing?

Tarvek took in a deep, calming breath. Clearly it wasn’t time for the ball, as no one had found him yet. He turned toward the clock on his nightstand. Eight-oh-seven, it read. Less than an hour until it began.

A sick feeling uncurled in the pit of Tarvek’s stomach. The ball was probably going to be a complete wreck! After all, clearly no one in Sturmhalten, himself included, was remotely competent at organizing events. And this ball, celebrating the new Pax Europa, was the social event of the decade. Of _course_ it was bound to be a disaster.

He had to get dressed, and quickly. Tarvek tugged on the golden pull by his bed to summon his valet. He might have just enough time to tweak his hair into perfect order and make sure he looked presentable before Andronicus Valois’ coat could be readied for him to wear.

Once Tarvek was seated in front of his vanity, he was again confronted by Agatha’s lipstick equations on his mirror, as well as his bruised nose. He groaned loudly and buried his head in his arms. Violetta’s makeup would have to do, and he’d have to wait for a maid to fetch it so his valet could apply it for him. A knock at the door sounded, and Tarvek looked up just in time to see his valet entering with the Valois coat, pressed and pristine. He breathed a small sigh of relief. At least no harm had come to the coat.

In short order, Violetta’s cosmetics were obtained and Tarvek’s bruising sufficiently masked. He topped a white silk shirt with a cloth-of-gold waistcoat, into which was tucked a crisp white cravat. The ensemble was finished with smart white trousers and the antique coat.

Oh, that coat. It had belonged to the Valois when he was young (his later outfits were sized more along the lines of Klaus Wulfenbach, and Tarvek’s shoulders didn’t fill them out very well). The white brocade shone in the soft light, which highlighted the fleurs de lis and arabesques woven into the cloth. Golden trim, cuffs, and epaulettes matched the rows of gleaming buttons, each of which had a small, zigzag pattern mimicking lightning bolts.

True, the coat wasn’t particularly subtle, but tonight was not about subtlety. It was about power. A celebration this might be, but it reminded the Fifty Families who was in charge, now, and that the Pax Europa was not the Pax Transylvania.

To that end, Tarvek added the finishing touch to his ensemble: a golden coronet studded with white diamonds and lightning bolt shapes. This glorious confection of rank still, unbelievably, managed to be less ornate than the Lightning Crown, which Tarvek had deemed too formal for this evening. He wanted to be daunting, yes, but there were limits, and wearing the Lightning Crown would’ve pushed his appearance from imposing to egotistical.

That, and the Lightning Crown was simply too heavy to wear for very long.

Looking at the reflection in his full-length mirror, Tarvek considered that tonight might not be a total disaster, after all. He was still the Storm King, and he had Gil and Agatha by his side. If the ball didn’t go as smoothly as planned, he’d just have to hold another one later, with the proper grandeur commensurate to a monarch of his status. Perhaps in the springtime, when the gardens were in full bloom – assuming the Jägers hadn’t driven his gardeners to an early retirement with their antics.

He studied his reflection and swallowed nervously. The coat was still a little tight about the shoulders, straining across his upper arms and back when he moved. Tarvek suppressed a scowl. He’d had his best tailor redo the lining in the coat to take the strain off the two hundred-year-old fabric – his best tailor! And now, she, too, had contributed to this fiasco, by ensuring that this priceless antique of a coat didn’t even fit him properly. He regretted skipping his final fitting in favor of rebuilding that clockwork reflecting pool with Agatha.

This went beyond Tarvek’s straying from his diet once too often. No, this he could safely chalk up to his tailor’s own fault. Grumbling quietly to himself, Tarvek reasoned that the shoulder seams would not likely be under undue stress, as his job that night was not physically strenuous. It would have to do.

Suitably attired, Tarvek made for the ballroom, silently willing himself to keep a handle on his emotions in case he was greeted by chaos. A burst of adrenaline bloomed in the pit of his stomach, as it always did on occasions like this. He was ready, and come hell or high water, he would do whatever it took to make everything end favorably, if not in his favor, specifically. Tonight, he certainly had his work cut out for him. It was enough to make him reconsider his stance on whether or not he loved a challenge after all.

Though Tarvek didn’t want to make anything like a proper entrance, he _was_ pressed for time. Instead of heading for the back stairway, he chose the grand staircase in the main foyer, as it was closest to the ballroom. Thus, as he made his way down the curved marble staircase, he was spotted from across the room by Violetta, who was surrounded by a group of clamoring Jägermonsters.

Violetta, whose duties that night were social rather than security-based, was clearly waiting for Tarvek to arrive, and leveled an impressive death glare at him. Though the Jägers could’ve triggered that reaction in anyone, Tarvek saw the real reason Violetta was so furious. Through the excitable group of monsters, he caught glimpses of a dress which, while a flattering shade of purple, was hideously styled by someone who’d clearly never attended a fashion show within a thousand kilometers of Paris. To top it all off, she was crowned with a matching purple hat, its brim stretching nearly a meter in diameter, topped with dyed ostrich feathers and a massive bow – something which should, under no circumstances, be permitted to enter the ballroom.

Before Tarvek could begin to bribe Violetta to take off her hat by promising a trip to a Viennese fashion house, she pointed to him. Tarvek couldn’t catch what she said, but the Jägers descended upon him en masse just as he reached the bottom of the staircase.

Tarvek had a guess as to what had excited the Jägers. At least, he had time to think, they no longer smelled of sewer.

“Hoy, Shtormy King!”

“De young lady say you can get us some hats!”

“Ve vant nice hats, too!”

“Hyu have a nice hat, hyuself!”

Tarvek thought it a waste of time to point out the differences between a hat and a coronet, not the least of which was that the latter could be worn by a gentleman at a ball without violating the rules of etiquette.

“Hats?” he repeated. Instantly, the Jägers quieted. Hats were a serious matter.

He’d be having words with Violetta about this later. While he felt bad that she’d been stuffed into that monstrosity of a dress, it wasn’t _his_ fault that her original gown had been destroyed by an amateur with a clothes iron! And she most certainly knew the rules of fashion etiquette better than to wear that hat into the ballroom. He had a sneaking suspicion that wearing that hat was a form of revenge for the ruined dress.

The Jägers nodded fiercely. They already sported hats of their own: Maxim’s trademark purple ten-gallon hat and Jorgi’s black-and-gold shako were in evidence. Jenka even had a close-fitting cap finished with a panache of iridescent feathers and pearls.

“Ve gots to look schmott for de party!” declared a hopeful blue Jäger with enormous horns. She blinked at Tarvek expectantly. “To look hintimidating, hyu gots to look nice first!”

“And to look nice, hyu gots to haff a _fancy dress_ hat!”

Tarvek couldn’t really argue with that logic. Pleasing these Jägers was going to be tricky, though – it wasn’t like he could spare anyone to go into the Night Markets and fetch more hats.

Before he could think of a decent way to delay their quest for hats until after the ball, Zeetha’s clear voice cut through the Jägers’ babble. “Why don’t you make some turbans out of the silk we bought? It’s not like we’re using it anymore.”

This delighted the Jägers. “Vhat a schmott girl!” Oggie declared cheerfully.

“Vhere ve find de silk?” asked a hulking red monster, who turned to face Zeetha.

“Ask one of the servants – I think they just put it away somewhere.”

With that, the Jägers took off before Tarvek could warn the staff to not be alarmed. At least he was no longer at the center of their attention. On the other hand, with the ball just fifteen minutes away, guests had already begun to show up, and the Jägers were part of the security detail. He hoped they could get their turbans quickly.

Tarvek turned to Zeetha, clad in a deep blue gown covered in elaborate embroidery patterns. It wasn’t quite her style, but the dress was nowhere near as bad as Violetta’s. “What happened to the decorations?” he asked warily.

Zeetha’s reply was abruptly cut off by a shoe colliding with the side of Tarvek’s head.

“What do you mean, giving me a dress this terrible?” Violetta snapped, leaning over to replace the shoe on her foot. “And you stole my makeup!”

Tarvek glowered and resisted the urge to rub the side of his head, as this might mess up his hair. “Watch the crown,” he snapped. “It’s solid gold. If it gets dented, I swear I will use your marrow as putty to fix it.”

Violetta glared at him and reached for her shoe again. Tarvek smoothly took a step back, out of smacking range.

“I’m sorry your dress was ruined!” he said quickly. “I really am. And if you must know, I was desperate,” he finished lamely.

“Geez. If you cared about Europa half as much as you care about your stupid face, we’d have worldwide peace by now.”

“You’re a delight, as always, dear cousin,” Tarvek said flatly. “Look, after this is over, I’ll take you to Paris or Vienna or _wherever_ and get you some dresses, but right now,” he turned back to Zeetha, “what’s this about not needing the silk? What happened to the decorations? The banners? The tablecloths? The silk I specially bought to replace the dead shipment of roses?” His voice might’ve been a little shaky, but that could hardly be helped.

Zeetha shrugged, looking far more nonchalant than Tarvek thought decent, considering the quality of the silk. “Agatha and I worked on them this afternoon. We got some wildflowers and made some arrangements. It looks pretty nice.”

Tarvek frowned. Zeetha’s definition of “pretty nice” also extended to an undemonstrative airman, smoked turkey legs, and the profusion of skulls in one of Castle Heterodyne’s parlors. Her tastes didn’t exactly align with his own. “Right,” he said after a pause. “Let me see it.”

“Aw, come on!” she teased, throwing one arm around his shoulders. “Don’t you trust Agatha?”

Tarvek glared at her sideways. “Not when it comes to décor.”

“I’m going to tell her you said that,” Violetta said simply, and began heading off ahead of them.

“Wait!” Tarvek called. “No – I’m not saying she has bad taste! But flower arrangements can say a lot, and you never know who you’ll offend if you’re not careful!”

“She’s the Heterodyne,” Zeetha said with a shrug, holding Tarvek tighter still. “She can offend who she wants.”

“Not when it reflects on me!” Tarvek snapped. With a deft twist, he slipped away from Zeetha, who looked a little impressed at this maneuver. Leaving the two women behind, Tarvek barely restrained himself from jogging through the archway into the ballroom.

He was greeted by a smattering of guests and a profusion of brightly colored flowers in the enormous urns down the room’s length. Tarvek took a moment to drink them in properly. At first blush, they were beautifully arranged – the colors and placements of the blossoms were top-notch. The golden and orange blooms matched the splendor of the room, from the gold-painted wainscoting and crown molding down to the enormous gilded punch fountain he’d worked on earlier. These were all offset perfectly with just the right amount of purple blossoms.

Then he analyzed the arrangements a little more closely.

Bellflowers, marigolds, and lobelia were interspersed with cypress sprigs, wormwood, and even tall grass turned golden by the autumn. Further inspection revealed a trio of skulls artfully arranged at the base of each bunch.

Horrified, Tarvek knew there was little to be done about this – at least two dozen guests had already seen it! The damage was well and truly done.

Agatha and Zeetha had spent all day arranging flowers that, together, conveyed sorrow, loss, pain, death, and submission, capped with _malevolence_ , while he’d napped the afternoon away!

They’d spelled out doom in a flowerpot. Twenty flowerpots, actually.

Tarvek’s mouth hung open in stunned shock. “Close your mouth,” Zeetha said sweetly, catching up with him. “It looks great! The Jägers helped. Apparently, this is the traditional flower arrangement of Mechanicsburg. The skulls were their idea.”

Tarvek scanned the room again. More skulls could be found throughout the hall – surrounding the fountains, up on the dais, and even on some of the trays of nibbles the waiters were carrying around. Suddenly, the Jägers’ trip to the sewers made a lot more sense – they all but doubled as the catacombs of Sturmhalten.

“And you didn’t think that might be a bad idea?” Tarvek rounded on her. “What am I supposed to do with this?! There are _sewer skulls_ on the waiters’ trays!”

After a moment, Tarvek took a deep breath and composed himself. It wouldn’t do to make a scene in front of guests. He glanced around. A few were looking at him in confusion. The heralds were not in place and no one had been properly announced yet, as Tarvek wasn’t seated at the dais to officially receive anyone yet. From a few meters away, Mumtaz Nejem, Emperor of the Great Arabian Empire and his wife, Fairuz, were giving Tarvek looks which he couldn’t quite interpret. He smiled at them briefly, which didn’t seem to help. They flinched and edged away quickly.

That was enough for him. Tarvek turned back to Zeetha and drew himself up. “You realize the implications of the flowers if anyone knows what they mean or where they come from? I hope no one takes this as a Heterodyne-ruled empire with a puppet Storm King.”

“Come from?” Zeetha scoffed. “They all came from the slopes behind the castle, or your own hothouses. And we all know who wields the death ray in your relationship, anyway.”

There was just no talking to her, Tarvek decided, and at the moment, there were other things he needed to worry about, like Emperor Nejem’s look of confused worry.

“I’ll deal with you later,” Tarvek said in a low voice. “If anyone asks about the flowers, tell them we’re trying to reclaim Mechanicsburg’s less-than-angelic past.”

Tarvek didn’t wait for Zeetha’s response before turning toward Emperor Nejem. Before he could take more than a few steps, however, he was waylaid by two familiar faces. Theopholous DuMedd, Agatha’s cousin and Tarvek’s former schoolmate, was clad in a light grey frock coat, under which he sported a brilliant emerald waistcoat. On his arm was Sleipnir O’Hara, resplendent in a matching green striped gown studded with tiny crystals. Somehow, this made Tarvek think of a dewy lawn.

Before he could turn this thought into some kind of poetic compliment, Theo reached for Tarvek’s hand, which he pumped up and down enthusiastically. “Tarvek!” he said jovially. “Or, I guess we call you ‘Majesty,’ now!”

“Nothing doing,” Sleipnir interjected. “To us, he’ll always be that little ginger hellion who ran around _Castle Wulfenbach_ in bare feet.”

Tarvek gave her a disparaging look. “Please, Sleipnir.”

“Oh, sure, fine, _Your Majesty_ ,” she returned with an easy shrug. “In that case, can we tell everyone about that time you and Gil set a wild swan loose in the baron’s labs?”

“Oh, yeah!” Theo grinned. “There was mustard _everywhere_.”

“And the Von Pinn sent His Majesty to his room.”

Tarvek threw his head back and stared at the ceiling. “Please. It’s ‘sir’ in public, ‘Your Majesty’ at official functions, and ‘Tarvek’ in private.”

Theo raised his brows, but recovered quickly. “Wow. Well, that’s fair, I suppose. Sir.”

Tarvek tried to ignore the uneasy feeling at hearing Theo call him “sir.” After enduring years of royal procedure and formality, he’d assumed he’d become used to such treatment, but it felt strange coming from Theo.

But protocols were protocols, and Tarvek needed to make a certain impression before so many guests. To appear disrespected or not properly honored before any political leaders might lead to potential rebellion. And it wasn’t as though he wanted to be formally addressed in private settings.

Sleipnir nodded in agreement, but the glint in her eye told Tarvek that she might not acquiesce quite that easily. “How about the time you and Gil used fishing rods to hook the hats off the Wulfenbach troops? Sir?”

Tarvek groaned. “Just… let me be dignified tonight? Please?”

Theo nodded. “We understand, sir. But speaking of Gil, where is he?”

“I’m not sure.” Tarvek tried to sound casual, but suspected he didn’t quite pull it off.

Theo waved this off. “That slacker. You never can get him to show up to anything. He’s probably off writing an orchestral suite to accompany the destruction of Agatha’s latest doomsday device.”

Tarvek gave a weak smirk at this.

“And where’s your better, er, third?” Theo continued.

“She should around here somewhere,” Tarvek said absently.

“She’s right here,” Sleipnir said, nodding toward Tarvek’s left to indicate Agatha’s presence. He turned to see her walking towards them, her bronze dress shimmering in the light from the candelabras and chandeliers. The gown was an off-the-shoulders confection of frills and organdy over layers and layers of petticoats. Goldwork embroidery curved across her bodice to form the shape of a Heterodyne trilobite. Her golden hair was twirled and pinned up onto her head in an attempt to disguise her cowlick. It hadn’t entirely worked, but Tarvek was enchanted.

“Hello, cousin!” Theo said cheerfully. “Or do we need to call you ‘my lady?’” he asked as Agatha hugged him tightly, a bright smile on her face. She turned to hug Sleipnir next.

“Oh, never mind that,” Agatha said quickly before Tarvek could correct her. “It would be weird coming from you.”

Sleipnir threw Tarvek a reproachful glance. “ _Agatha_ doesn’t need to be called anything fancy.”

Tarvek silently sang a thousand praises to Agatha when she said, “Sure, but I’m the Heterodyne, not the Storm King.” It was precisely for that reason that Tarvek needed all the help he could get. As the last in a long line of fearsome warlords, Agatha could command respect without needing to prove herself. He, on the other hand, had to show he was worthy of living up to his new title.

As Agatha stood back beside Tarvek, he reached for her hand and squeezed it once. Agatha gave him an inquiring look. He shook his head minutely to dismiss her question before it was voiced.

“What were you talking about?” Agatha asked, then.

“We wondered where Gil was,” said Theo.

“Still not sure,” Agatha said, sounding disappointed. Tarvek squeezed her hand again, this time to comfort her. “Please excuse us. We’ll talk to you later, okay?” With that, she turned, taking Tarvek with her through the archway into the foyer, down a corridor, and into a nearby sitting room.

Without any lamps or sconces lit, the only illumination came from the heating pipes circling the room, which glowed a faint orange that reflected in Agatha’s eyes as she stared up at him soberly. Tarvek reflected that perhaps he should revisit the initial plans for the heating system so that it would glow green – it looked better on Agatha than orange.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

Tarvek pulled a face. “The better question is, what _isn’t_ going wrong?”

Agatha’s lips curved into a tiny smile. “Just a few more hours and then it’s all over. We can hole up in your room and have cake and talk about it.”

At the suggestion, he smiled back. “Cake isn’t the answer to all life’s problems.”

“If it isn’t, you’re doing something wrong,” she retorted.

“Cake does sound good,” he admitted, then sighed. Staring down at her, he drank in the light glinting off her hair and glasses, just enough to let him see her face. He couldn’t see her clearly, but she was beautiful. She was always – would always be – beautiful. And, as ever, she was a wonderful partner. He drew her close, wrapping his arms around her waist. She returned the embrace, hugging him tightly.

Something within Tarvek unwound just a little, and he relaxed a bit. He suddenly felt very tired.

“What’s wrong, specifically?” Agatha asked after a long moment of silence.

Where to begin? Tarvek gave a mirthless chuckle. “I lost my engagement ring, I made an idiot of myself in front of Klaus and Zanta, the Muses were taken by your dear circus, and to top it all off,” he continued doggedly over her gasp of horror, “Gil still isn’t here.”

Agatha drew back sharply. “Your Muses were stolen?!”

Tarvek scowled. “Not exactly. They ran away with the circus, evidently of their own volition.”

Agatha stared open-mouthed at this revelation. “After all the work you put into repairing and reuniting them!”

He nodded mutely. “Liza and Mawu said it was because they weren’t meant to be shown off.”

“They could’ve said something if they didn’t want to do that! They didn’t have to run away!” she said hotly. Tarvek’s silence was more than a little damning. Agatha paused. “They _did_ tell you, didn’t they?”

“You know how they are,” he muttered. “They talk in roundabout riddles and rhymes, not in declaratives. I took their objections as mild discomfort, not as outright refusal. I figured Otilia, at least, would be vocal, after bossing me around as a kid.” He slouched in Agatha’s embrace. “They say they’ll be back later.”

Agatha said nothing, and just held him.

“I love you,” Tarvek whispered in the darkness. And after a moment, “I wish I knew where Gil was. I got word that he was supposed to be back earlier today.”

“What?” Agatha pulled away to look at him closely, though what she could see in the darkness, Tarvek wasn’t sure. “What did you hear?”

“Got a message delivered by clank,” he said. “Gil wrote saying he would probably be back by the time I got the note, and that he was fine.”

Agatha’s brows furrowed. “Then where is he?”

“I don’t know.” Tarvek ignored the roiling feeling of worry churning in his stomach. Gil was fine. Of course he was fine. He _had_ to be fine. He was _Gil._

“He’s probably okay,” Agatha said, echoing his thoughts, but he noticed that her voice lacked conviction. “He can handle just about anything.”

“Of course.” They were blatantly in denial about Gil’s absence, and they both knew it.

Standing around in a dark room when they should be preparing to greet their guests was doing no good, and would only cause more problems, Tarvek knew. “Come on,” he said quietly. “We’ve got work to do.” He held out his arm for her, which she took, and he escorted her out into the corridor. “Whether or not that lout shows up.”

“Tarvek!”

For a while, they walked in silence. Tarvek wisely said nothing about the flower arrangements. Picking a fight with Agatha would only increase the number of problems, and there was nothing that could be done about it now, though he could calmly discuss it with her later.

“We shouldn’t formally greet everyone until Gil gets here,” Agatha said after a few moments. “According to what you’ve said about protocol.”

“Right,” Tarvek sighed.

“What are we supposed to do, let the Jägers have a poetry reading?”

“Science forbid,” Tarvek said with genuine fear in his voice. He’d seen the aftermath of poetry night at Mamma Gkika’s. “We’ll have to mingle and keep things low-key until Gil arrives. No dancing, just conversation and hors d’oeuvres.” He paused to sigh again as they turned into the foyer. Rather than joining the crowd milling before the main entrance to the ballroom, however, Tarvek steered Agatha toward another corridor, where there was a side door to the ballroom which be entered with less ceremony. “Please, in the name of science, let everything go smoothly until he gets here.”

“Begging, cousin?”

At the deep voice behind him, Tarvek felt his hackles rising and he instantly tensed up, hands balling into fists. Agatha, too, went rigid. “ _Tweedle_ ,” Tarvek spat out without turning around. “You climbed out of that slimy hole you call a castle just to see me tonight. I’m flattered.”

Tarvek turned to look at his cousin, who stood beside his sister, Xerxephina. “Well, at least it’s better heated than this old dump,” Martellus scoffed.

Tarvek’s eye twitched.

“And I saw the flower arrangements!” he continued with a broad smirk. “What a fine figure you make as the Heterodyne’s pampered pet Storm King!”

Furiously, Tarvek raised his arm and heard a distinct ripping sound.

He froze.

He knew before he looked that the seams connecting his sleeves to the body of Andronicus’ coat were split open. Tarvek didn’t register Agatha’s horrified gasp or Seffie’s quiet exclamation. All he heard was Martellus’ ugly, booming laughter. “Putting on weight, cousin?”

Tarvek couldn’t quite remember what happened next. Suddenly, he was being held back by at least three sets of arms, one of which belonged to Agatha. Martellus was dragged forcibly away by Seffie, who looked distinctly terrified.

“Let’s get that coat fixed,” came Agatha’s voice in his ear.

Before he had a chance to insist that there wasn’t time to do so, Violetta spoke up. “You’re never going to make a good Storm King if you keep getting upset at that buffoon.”

Tarvek saw that she was one of his captors, and that she had gotten rid of her hat. Slowly, he began to compose himself and stood up straighter. While he knew he would eventually be grateful that he hadn’t publically attacked his cousin, Tarvek wished he’d not been restrained. Thrashing Martellus would’ve significantly improved his mood.

“Violetta.” He turned to her as she loosened her grip, as did Agatha and his third retainer. “Zeetha.”

“Oh, _now_ he notices us,” Violetta snapped.

“It’s those tiny glasses,” Zeetha replied. “He can only see something if it’s directly in line with looking down his nose.”

“How good of you to point it out, Your Highness,” Tarvek replied acidly. “My field of vision is limited to my glasses, yes, whereas yours is restricted to things you can either stuff into your face, or whose face can be stuffed in by your fists. A family trait, I believe.”

“Ashtara above, if I wasn’t wearing this nice dress...”

“You’d do what, prove my point?” Tarvek felt a little mollified by Zeetha’s miffed expression.

“Tarvek,” Agatha said in a warning tone.

She was right – he was being uncouth. He stared at the three women’s expressions wordlessly for a few moments. Agatha looked concerned, where Zeetha looked annoyed and Violetta seemed wary. It was the day he’d had, the wild Spark within him chomping at the bit for an excuse to let loose.

More than ever, he wished Gil were there. He was surprisingly good at calming Tarvek down, when he wasn’t trying to rile him up. Perhaps that was because his method of doing so tended to be silent hugs.

“My apologies,” he said softly.

Of course, if Gil was there, Tarvek had the feeling he’d have collapsed into his arms like a fainting maiden. Agatha’s hugs were always a joy, but Gil’s enormous frame held a certain kind of security he desperately needed right then.

 _Just a few more hours,_ he told himself quietly. _Just a little longer,_ _and you can be done with this pox-ridden party._

“You should go change,” Agatha said quietly, but this idea was quickly forgotten as a crowd of Jägers strutted in, each wearing a brightly colored silk turban, either on its own or with another hat atop it. In Ognian’s case, the turban was wrapped around his fez.

Each Jäger swaggered a bit as he or she walked, ego boosted by the new headgear. Tarvek might not have paid them more than a few seconds’ notice, as they appeared to be heading to their designated posts, were it not for the Emperor and Empress of the Great Arabian Empire. The Nejems took one look at the Jägers’ new gear and shrank away fearfully, Mumtaz clutching at his own turban while Fairuz clung to his arm.

“Hoy!” called one of the Jägermonsters, all of whom quickly descended upon the pair. “Nice hat!” It was clear that this was meant to be a compliment, though the Nejems weren’t taking it as such.

“Ve can be hat buddies!” said another, and clapped the emperor on the back.

Tarvek frowned. He moved in the direction of the Nejems, as did Agatha, but at their approach, the emperor and empress started and retreated back into the crowd, clearly terrified. Tarvek wasn’t sure what they were so scared of, aside from the Jägerkin, but decided there was nothing much to be done at the moment.

“Come on,” he said to Agatha, and led her down the hall toward the side entrance.

A liveried servant opened the door for them, and Tarvek escorted her through. Her shoes clicked softly on the beautiful cream-and-gold marble floor.

Tarvek, now that he was in full royal host mode, surveyed the room with every ounce of regal command he possessed. His eyes swept over dresses, suits, and robes in every shade and fabric type. Pale stone columns alternated with the catastrophic flower arrangements along the length of the room up to the dais toward the west end of the hall. Three thrones sat there, one magnificent velvet-and-gilt throne for Tarvek flanked by two smaller and less ornate ones for Gil and Agatha. Royalty Gil might be, but the Storm King held the seat of power here in his own keep, both literally and figuratively.

Behind the thrones towered an enormous window stretching towards the arched ceiling. It wasn’t stained glass, exactly, but a spark creation as hard as diamonds, held in place by cames made of a steel alloy rather than lead. Sturmhalten was a fortress, after all.

The image on window, which could just be made out despite the darkness, depicted Andronicus Valois, sword in hand, backed by the muses and a lightning storm. It was a magnificent work of art of which Tarvek was very fond, in spite of the man’s evidently brutish nature. When he’d been younger, Tarvek had looked up to Andronicus, wanting to be just like him. As the successor to the Lightning Crown, Tarvek now looked upon that window as a challenge and a reminder: he would be a better Storm King than the Valois ever was.

This was it. This was his night.

And, Tarvek remembered as he heard the murmurs around him, he was wearing a ripped jacket.

Resolutely, he ignored this. The coronet was specially designed to go with his coat, to say nothing of the rest of his carefully coordinated outfit. It probably wasn’t too bad. After all, the epaulettes covered most of the damage, and considering the age and weave of the brocade, Tarvek didn’t want to risk further fraying or shredding by attempting to pin the sleeves up.

“Sire?” One of the staff approached him, then, and asked politely if it was time to begin introducing the guests. Tarvek glanced again at the thrones, then regretfully shook his head. Gil wasn’t there. It wasn’t time. If Gil hadn’t arrived in an hour, then maybe…

But Gil would be there, or Tarvek would know the reason why.

So the mingling began. Tarvek, in an effort to keep at least one of his shoulders less visible, kept Agatha on his arm and simply followed her lead around the room. This strategy seemed to work for the first dozen or so guests, up until he introduced himself to Countess Nicoletta von Grimmelshausen. She gave his shoulders a look which could be termed “politely disgusted,” which Tarvek thought rich from a woman wearing such a lurid shade of pink, and with such an enormous hoop skirt. Really, who was she trying to hide beneath it?

“And may I present Lady Agatha Heterodyne?” Tarvek continued as though he’d not noticed Countess Nicoletta’s gaze or fashion. He tried not to stare further at the excessive ruching on her dress, which, when paired with yards of cream frills and lace, created a hideous effect. It simply didn’t go with the sheer size of the dress, or with the massive amounts of gaudy gold jewelry (studded with pink gems, of course). Her designer would’ve been better off donating his or her body to science, preferably to someone Sparky who could make the best use of it.

“Lady Heterodyne,” said the countess as she smoothly curtsied, smiling to herself. Perhaps, Tarvek thought, she was sardonically amused by curtsying to a lady when she was a countess. But then, Agatha was the Heterodyne, and everyone would bow and scrape to her in the end. She could even get the Storm King to tremble and obey. Sometimes. The flower arrangements were where he’d have to put his foot down in future.

“Where do you come from, Countess?” Agatha asked her politely.

She smiled beneath her brunette curls. “My family owns a castle in Thuringia. I am the last of our house. Sadly, my mother was killed by House Wulfenbach, but life goes on, and it is my turn to rule and raise a family.”

Tarvek inclined his head once. It had taken longer than he’d expected for someone to bring up negative feelings against the Pax Transylvania. “My condolences, Countess. I am sorry for your loss, and hope that, at least for tonight, we can turn your mind toward hope for a bright future.”

“You’re too kind, Your Majesty,” she said with a tight smile. She curtsied deeply to Tarvek and Agatha, then turned away, leaving them to greet others.

Tarvek knew that Agatha had been itching to find Adam and Lilith, since they’d also been invited. “I think we’ve done enough rounds,” Tarvek said quietly. “Let’s go find your parents.”

Agatha smiled broadly and squeezed his arm as they began to scan the crowd. It was a short search. Adam and Lilith stood several inches above most of the attendees. As Tarvek let himself be directed through the crowd by Agatha, he tried not to make too much eye contact with other guests, lest they he be pulled aside to discuss something undoubtedly dull or insufferably mad.

It didn’t take long for Lilith to see Agatha and Tarvek heading in their direction, and she pulled Adam along towards them. As they met, Agatha smiled hugely and buried herself in her adoptive parents’ arms, abandoning Tarvek in the process. Adam’s strong arms and Lilith’s gentle ones embraced her fiercely. After a long moment, they separated, and Agatha seemed much more relaxed.

Tarvek had met Adam and Lilith before; every time he saw them with Agatha, he felt a little uncomfortable. His family wasn’t like that. Adam seemed to understand this, and he smiled warmly at Tarvek, shaking his hand like he was an old friend. “Tarvek. It’s good to see you,” he rumbled in his deep voice.

“You’re looking very well,” Lilith added, also beaming at him.

“Thank you. How is Maxinia?” he asked smoothly, ignoring the lack of titles. Clearly, no one was going to address him formally this evening. Such was his lot in life, he supposed, and where Adam and Lilith were concerned, he wasn’t going to quibble. They were soon to be his family, and unlike Klaus and Zanta, Tarvek was looking forward to having them in his life. They didn’t tease him at every turn, for starters.

Adam and Lilith took turns rhapsodizing about their daughter. Agatha was delighted with the stories, and she promised to plan a visit so that she could be a proper older sister, blood relative or no.

After a few moments, conversation turned general. “That fountain certainly is something,” Lilith said.

“Oh, that was Tarvek’s idea,” Agatha said cheerily. “You should’ve seen him building it! It was amazing.”

Tarvek silently reflected that it hadn’t felt amazing, but held his tongue on that count. “Sure, if you didn’t mind getting covered in punch,” he said.

“It looks worth the effort,” Adam said as he analyzed the piece from across the room.

“I certainly hope so,” Tarvek said. As long as he had a captive audience, he was going to say _some_ things about the making of it. “There were at least three explosions and it ruined about half my lab.”

Lilith’s brows furrowed. “Is this about the punch or the fountain?”

“Both.”

“Remind me to avoid it,” Adam stage whispered, but he winked at Tarvek.

“Avoid? Not me, I hope.” Zanta’s deep voice sounded amused as she sauntered up.

Tarvek bowed to Zanta, whose arm was adorned by Klaus Wulfenbach. In her elegant heels, Zanta was tall, of a height with the former baron. The strength of her bare arms was readily apparent, as were the twin swords strapped to her waist, smaller and more ceremonial-looking than the traditional katara Tarvek had been expecting, but no less lethal. Klaus, too, Tarvek noticed with annoyance, was armed with a highly decorative cutlass at his belt. Clearly, they’d not taken all their cues from Europan fashion.

The queen’s dark green hair was pulled up into a chignon, dripping with gem-studded ornaments. This seemed to be a concession to the fashions of Europa, since she’d opted to wear Zeetha’s newest formal dress that evening. And Klaus, Tarvek noticed with a pang, was wearing a magnificent coat of blue-grey herringbone, which sparked with lightning as he moved. So whoever had been assigned to cobble his and Gil’s coats together had succeeded in creating a rather _fitted_ coat.

“Klaus!” Adam boomed out happily, clapping him on the back. “It’s been too long!”

“It has!” Lilith echoed. “Zanta, how lovely to see you.”

As greetings were exchanged, Tarvek noticed that Klaus looked... content. That had to be a first. Then again, Tarvek was used to seeing Klaus as a baron in charge of a large empire, not a reclusive, retired scientist with a royal title by marriage. Retirement agreed with Klaus.

Adam’s loud laugh brought him back to reality. “How’s training going?”

Klaus, who was training in Skifandrian weaponry and martial arts, gave a deadpan stare. “As smoothly and painfully as can be expected.”

“He enjoys every moment of it,” Zanta clarified. Her grin was sharp, even devious, likely remembering some recent training session in which she had trounced her husband. She certainly looked capable of doing so.

“Not _every_ moment.” Klaus raised a shaggy eyebrow at Zanta admonishingly, but she merely smiled, unabashed.

Agatha looked a little pale as she remembered her own history with Skifandrian warfare. “I’ll bet not.”

A loud laugh from Zeetha heralded her arrival to the group, and she slung an arm around Agatha. “Aw, come on, you have fun training!”

“Not at first! I actually thought you were trying to kill me, some days.” She shuddered in memory. “I’m pretty sure I still have some of the bruises.”

“But now you can fight,” Zeetha pointed out.

“Yes, and some days, that’s not exactly good news,” Tarvek said, somehow keeping a straight face.

Zanta snorted. “If you’re worried, build a better fortress.”

Tarvek frowned at her, but Theo spoke up before he could do so. “Easier said than done! Build a castle that can withstand both a Heterodyne _and_ a Wulfenbach in residence? Begging your pardon, sir.”

“Nice save,” Sleipnir muttered as Theo bowed to Klaus.

“Clearly, there’s something to be said about having a fiancée who can tear down your house with the aid of a circus troupe,” Zeetha said as she gave her eyebrows a smarmy waggle.

Tarvek looked into Agatha’s bright green eyes and tried not to smile, a feat at which he spectacularly failed.

Zeetha’s snicker brought him back to earth. “Don’t forget there is a ball tonight. You two can play later.”

Agatha stuck her tongue out at Zeetha. “Who’s the one who had to spend a solid week locked in her bedroom with her boyfriend?”

Zeetha shrugged as Zanta laughed. “You should’ve done the same.” Agatha’s level stare made Zeetha reconsider this. “Okay, fair, Tarvek and Gil would’ve killed each other after half a day.”

“And it would’ve been his fault,” Tarvek muttered to no one in particular.

“Speaking of your son, Klaus, where is he?” Lilith asked, and Tarvek breathed a sigh of relief, glad that he hadn’t had to think up a way to redirect the conversation. Talking of sex in front with not one but two sets of future in-laws was not at the top of his priority list.

“I’m sure the His Majesty and Lady Heterodyne know more than I do,” Klaus said with a light frown.

Everyone’s eyes shifted between Tarvek and Agatha, both of whom looked worried. “I’m not sure,” she said slowly. “He should’ve been back. It was just a breakthrough clank. All the reports said it wasn’t that bad.” The first few notes of the spark turned Agatha’s voice deeper, more forceful. “He wanted to contain it, study it, and bring the Spark who’d made it back to _Castle Wulfenbach_.” She paused again to gather her thoughts. “Even if he had to skip the cleanup, or detain someone to interrogate, that shouldn’t have taken as long as it has. It doesn’t make sense. And if his ship crashed, we would’ve heard about it by now.”

No one brought up the possibility that Gil might’ve been badly injured, killed, or outclassed by a breakthrough clank. It was too absurd. Either that, or...

“It’s not a breakthrough clank,” Tarvek whispered.

“Explain.” Klaus’ gaze was sharp as he turned toward Tarvek.

“It can’t be,” he continued. “It’s just taking too long. Gil’s taken out whole armies by himself before, in no time flat. You’ve seen him do it. This isn’t a breakthrough clank. It’s a trap.”

“Why?” Klaus pressed.

“I don’t know!” Tarvek’s voice rose just a bit, and he paused to collect himself, ignoring the Spark beginning to rise in him, thrumming through his veins like adrenaline. “I don’t know. Tonight. Us. Someone wants Gil away from here. This is too big a ceremony with half the leaders in Europa conveniently gathered in one room.”

“Who would try anything like that?” Agatha interjected thoughtfully. “With all the Jägers, the Wulfenbach troops, the Smoke Knights, all of the Sparks here... who would think they had a shot at trying to take all of us out at once, at Sturmhalten?”

As if on cue, a loud voice rang throughout the hall. “Now!” The orchestra halted, conversation a beat later. Tarvek and Agatha turned as one to see a woman in a vivid pink and cream dress atop the grand staircase. Her arm rose, and she threw _something_ at the dance floor. Two construct attendants in matching pink livery echoed her movement, lobbing two identical missiles at the dancers. Tarvek and Agatha leapt back in opposite directions as a clay sphere hit the floor near their feet and shattered, scattering dirt and ceramic and something else. What was...?

Before Tarvek could work out what was going on, the debris began to writhe and grow. Grey-green tendrils grew outward, worming their way across the wood floor. Seeds. They were seeds.

The floor began to crack and split as the roots broke apart the boards. All shades of brown—umber, sepia, ochre—flurried around the room as the plants grew with horrific speed. Green shoots sprouted into leaves, and buds grew and unfurled into bright pink roses. Beautiful they might’ve been, but they were growing far too quickly for anything natural. Agatha’s head spun around to search for Tarvek, who was standing about ten feet away with Zanta. The Skifandrian’s swords were drawn, and she immediately began to hack at the bushes which were starting to back her up against the wall. Tarvek met Agatha’s eyes. “Agatha!” he shouted over the crackling, squeaking din filling the room.

She tried to run toward him, and Tarvek wished against all hope that she’d managed to smuggle some kind of weapon under her skirts—a knife, a death ray, some C-gas, anything! A ripping sound caught Tarvek’s ears and Agatha was jerked sideways as her dress caught on the thorns springing up around her. With a yank, her dress ripped, and she was free. She brought up her hand to reach for Tarvek, but she was pulled harshly backwards by Zeetha. “Don’t touch the bushes!”

Before Agatha could say anything else, a wall of rose bushes wormed their way between her and Tarvek. Zeetha was right. These weren’t normal rose bushes. Who knew if they were poisonous or dangerous in some way? Well, other than the fact that they might actually bring down Sturmhalten from within. Nature was a powerful force, and the wood and marble floors were already half destroyed.

Tarvek returned his gaze to the pink woman at the top of the staircase. Who was she? Tarvek had met her earlier that evening—Nancy? Nicole?

Nicoletta! Nicoletta Von Grimmelshausen, Countess of Thuringia.

Pink. Why did it always have to be pink? Tarvek grimaced at the countess’ dress, trying not to think of Zola. Judging by the venue and the woman’s stance, he guessed they were about to find out the reason behind the interruption, and, he suspected, Gil’s continued absence.

The woman smiled, hands on her hips, shoulders back, exuding confidence. “Now that we’re all settled in...” Her focus sharpened on one man. “Klaus Wulfenbach. You must die.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Regarding the floral arrangements, I did do research and tried to come up with something that would be available in fall around Romania. Cypress isn't native to that area, obviously, but I figured that a Spark might have a greenhouse with some kind of smallish cultivar. Or something. But here is the list of explanations that I managed to find for the flowers:
> 
> Bellflower (Campanula rapunculus) – Disappointment, loss  
> Wormwood (Artemisia absinthium) – Absence, bitter sorrow  
> Marigold (Calendula officinalis) – pain and grief  
> Lobelia (Lobelia dortmanna) – Malevolence  
> Cypress – death  
> Grass – submission


End file.
